Hamish
by ChildOfTheBarricade
Summary: Sherlock decides that it's time to meet his sixteen-month-old son. This is a parentlock (parent!lock) story :)
1. Your Little Experiment

**Chapter 1 – Your Little Experiment**

"Mycroft, where is my son?" Sherlock looked accusingly at him and Mycroft actually took a step backwards, almost in shock from his brother's question.

"Your s- Hamish?"

"Yes, Hamish, your little experiment, where is he?"

"Why do you ask?"

"I am interested."

"You've never been interested before."

It was true. The boy was nearly eighteen months old and neither parent had ever shown the slightest bit of concern for the child. Mycroft supposed that was the problem with allowing sociopaths to breed.

"Well I am now. And you'd better give me an answer because you have a legal obligation to do so. I am his father."

"He is at a research facility in an undisclosed location."

Sherlock threw the newspaper he was reading to the floor and stood, glaring at his brother. "A research facility? That was not part of the deal, Mycroft. You swore to me that he would have a normal childhood. You said he would be regularly monitored and assessed but that he would be treated as a normal child."

"Yes, well, that isn't what happened, is it? It would have been too difficult to control that way."

"I want to see him."

"Little brother, you can't see him."

"I can and I will. Or else I'll have John write about how you created a genius child and locked him up in a research facility and we wouldn't want that coming out, would we?"

"Tomorrow. A car will be here at 8am."

"Thank you, brother dear. Goodbye, now."

John stepped in the doorway, mumbling something about Sherlock not helping him, and carrying about eight bags of groceries.

"Oh, hello, Mycroft. Tea?" he offered, presuming Sherlock hadn't done so.

"No, thank you, John, I have to go. I expect I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he turned on his heel and saw himself out.

"Tomorrow?" John asked as he began putting the shopping away.

"We're going to meet my son." Sherlock had sat back down and did not look up from his newspaper as he spoke.

John dropped the can he'd been holding and wheeled around, his eyebrows almost disappearing into his hairline. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Well... not exactly my son. Mycroft and his... people were trying to develop a 'super-genius'. They created the child using my genes and those of the most intelligent woman in Britain... supposedly."

"Have you ever... met him before?"

"No. Once he was conceived... artificially of course... I wasn't allowed to have anything to do with it. I hadn't actually put any thought into it until we were at that park the other day."

"What park?"

"We were there with Lestrade about that murder. There were children there and I… was reminded of him. I should at least have the right to see the boy."

"Yes of course. Um… What about his mother?"

"More socially inept than I. She's practically a machine. She birthed him, took her money and went back to Glastonbury."

"They paid you?"

"They paid her. I didn't... Mycroft pressured me into it. I tried to delete the whole thing but it never..." He stopped and waved his hand dismissively.

"You wouldn't take the money?"

"It didn't seem right. He's a human being, John."

"Yeah… I was living here then, Sherlock. Why didn't you… tell me about it?"

He waved his hand again and said, "I didn't want to talk about it."

"Right. So how old is he?"

"He'd be... sixteen months next Tuesday."

"Do you know his name?"

"Hamish, amusing as that seems. It was her last name. And he took my surname. Hamish Holmes."

"And where is he? Is he with a foster family or..."

"When he was born, Mycroft promised me that he would be adopted off and that the psychologists and doctors on the project would simply monitor his progress. He swore to me that the boy would live a relatively normal life."

"So, where is he?"

"In a research facility." Sherlock glared at the wall and folded his arms. "And he won't be staying there."

"Oh..." John had almost recovered from his shock and returned to putting the groceries away. "Where… where will he go?"

"I don't know... I mean... If I like the child... I would be quite happy to... well... we'd have to discuss it with Mrs. Hudson of course... and only if you're comfortable with it."

"You'd want him to live here... with us?"

"Yes. But only if..."

"It's fine, Sherlock. He's your son; of course you want him to be with you. You will have to talk to Mrs. Hudson, though."

Sherlock nodded and sat still for a few moments, before jumping out of his seat and heading down the stairs.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson had waved him off with a "Yes, dear, of course that's fine. Oh, how exciting to have a little one around here. I'll have to make him something..." and now he was in his mind palace.

John went back to the shop to buy nappies, bottles, bibs, dummies, blankets and clothes. He wasn't sure what level of development this 'genius' child would be at, so simply bought for a normal sixteen-month-old.

"I could have done that," said Sherlock when John returned, showing him the shopping.

"Oh... sorry, I just thought... You've probably got a lot of other stuff to think about."

"Yes, thank you. I wouldn't have known what to get anyway. You know I never actually said we were definitely bringing him home."

"Whether you want to or not, I know that as soon as I see this kid, I'm not going to want him in some institution. And we shouldn't adopt him off. You're the only person who'd understand someone like that. It'll be good for the both of you."

"Yes... thank you, John."


	2. Hamish

**Chapter 2 – Hamish**

8am the next morning couldn't come fast enough. Sherlock had spent the night pacing and playing his violin so John was running on about twelve cups of tea and a tiny amount of sleep.

At precisely 8 o'clock, a black car with darkly tinted windows pulled up outside 221B and Sherlock looked up from John's laptop with a mixture of excitement and fear that only John could have detected.

They pulled on their coats, and Sherlock his scarf, and headed downstairs.

He remained silent for the entire trip, which lasted almost four hours, staring straight ahead of him, his eyes now blank.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine."

"Right." John nodded and sighed.

Mycroft met them at the gates and led them into the tall, grey building that reminded John frighteningly of Baskerville. As they walked down the beige corridors, John battled with the fact that a baby, Sherlock's baby, had been brought up in this over-sterilized, manufactured, alien environment. Sherlock meanwhile was running through the implications of this in his head – lowered immunity, impaired social development, potential fear of the outside world, inability to assimilate into society once removed from this location...

"Here he is, Sherlock."

They were stood in a large observation deck, overlooking some sort of artificial-looking playroom, in the middle of which sat a tiny little boy with a head of fine, dark curls, building a rather impressive block tower. He was sitting on his knees in complete silence, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"He's progressing very well, although, not as we were anticipating. He is very advanced, don't get me wrong. But he isn't the… superhuman we were hoping for. At the moment, our main concern is his speech, which is... limited at best."

"He isn't two!"

"Yes, Doctor Watson, but the boy was specifically bred to develop above and beyond what is considered 'normal'."

"Bred? He isn't... God... Sherlock, you have to..."

"Yes, John, I'm getting there." He turned to his brother and fixed him with a defiant glare. "We will be taking Hamish home with us today, is that understood?"

"You will not."

"Mycroft, if you do not cooperate with me you know what will happen. Are you aware of how many people read John's blog?"

The elder Holmes was rendered speechless for a few moments before he nodded, turned around, and opened a door for them, ushering them through. It led the three men down a flight of stairs until they reached another door which, when opened, led out into the playroom containing little Hamish.

He squealed with delight when the three of them entered the room, clapping his hands and bouncing up and down.

John's turn to deduce - minimal human contact, significant proportion of time spent alone, severely deprived of interaction and affection.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"Alright?" John touched a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Mmm."

"I'll get him," John decided.

He walked slowly towards the little boy in the middle of the room, who was so excited he looked ready to explode.

"Hello, Hamish." John sat down next to the infant, not sure of how he would react and not wanting to frighten him. He touched a hand to the boy's cheek, causing him to grin and crawl into his lap. "Hey, little man."

Hamish was at least dressed like a normal child, a tiny pair of jeans and a blue t-shirt with a fire engine on it, miniscule shoes covering his little feet. For a moment, John thought that perhaps Mycroft had actually cloned Sherlock, rather than 'bred' him with somebody else. The child in his lap was the spitting image of his flat mate. A mop of dark, unruly curls covered his head, although they were shorter and finer than Sherlock's. The little boy's eyes were that same inexplicable blue-green-yellow-grey of the detective's, although, now that John looked at him more closely, Hamish did not have his father's mouth.

He picked the child up, his smile widening as the boy reached up to press his hands against his new friend's face with a smile and a little giggle. John then returned to the Holmes brothers, pointing towards Sherlock.

"Hamish, this is your Daddy."

"Dah?" Hamish questioned.

"Yes, Daddy," he repeated.

"Dah!" Hamish wriggled and stretched his arms towards Sherlock, almost falling out of John's grasp in the process.

"Do be careful with him, Doctor Watson, he's worth fifteen million pounds."

John ignored this. "Do you want to take him, Sherlock?"

"I... uh..."

"Dah!" Hamish repeated, reaching towards him with everything he had.

"Yes." He carefully took the squirming boy from John and brought his small body close.

"Dah!" Hamish exclaimed again, reaching his little hands up to touch Sherlock's face.

"We're taking him home now, Mycroft. Do I need to fill out some sort of form?"

"Sherlock, you can't just..."

"And you can't lock this child up in some facility for his entire life!" John shouted, causing Hamish to give a little whimper, grabbing onto Sherlock's shirt and burying his face in the crook of his father's neck. "Sorry, mate. I didn't mean to scare you." John reached a gentle hand up to rub the baby's back in soothing circles.

"Mycroft, just tell me what I need to do."

"You'll need to retrieve his things. And it would be best to speak with the head psychiatrist on the project, and..."

"Stop calling him a project, Mycroft, the boy is your nephew." Sherlock was clutching the child tightly against him, something the boy seemed to be enjoying considerably – starved for affection, he noted. "And what? Quickly now, it's nearly lunchtime."

"I'll show you where you need to go," Mycroft sighed.

He led them through a maze of corridors; Hamish still nestled in his father's arms, a little fist curled around a handful of his shirt.

They stopped first at the psychiatrist's office. As they entered the room, Hamish tightened his hand around Sherlock's shirt, as if he was suddenly afraid he was going to be left there. "It's alright, you're coming home with me," he whispered to him as Mycroft announced them.

"Doctor Turnbull, this is my brother, Sherlock Holmes, and his..." he gestured towards John.

"Flat mate," John supplied, as if it were obvious.

"Flat mate, Doctor John Watson. They're taking Hamish home with them today."

"Taking him? They're not taking him."

"Yes, I'm afraid they are."

"I... can't we..."

"Sherlock is the boy's father; he has absolute power over what happens to the child."

"But he signed... he's blackmailing you, Mycroft."

"Obviously the public cannot find out about this project, Doctor Turnbull. It wasn't going how we wanted, anyway. I only came here so that you could speak to them about Hamish and his needs."

"I'll do no such thing."

"Well give me the boy's file then," Mycroft's patience was growing thin and he held his hand out until it was filled with the file. "Thank you. Sherlock, I'll have the appropriate forms sent to you. Say goodbye to Doctor Turnbull, Hamish."

"Bah," Hamish said, not lifting his head from where it rested on Sherlock's shoulder but raising a small hand to wave.

And with that, they left. On the way out, they stopped by Hamish's living quarters to retrieve some things, 'comfort items', John had called them, to take home. The blanket from his cot, a few toys, some clothes, and finally, they stepped out of the building, both John and Sherlock breathing a sigh of relief.

"Good luck, little brother." Mycroft shook his hand before they stepped into the car, the doors being closed behind them.

Sherlock sat his son comfortably on his lap, facing him, and the car drove off.

"Dah?" Hamish tapped on Sherlock's chest and, once he'd gained his attention, pointed at John.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked. Hamish simply continued to point. "This is John," he explained. "He's our friend. John."

"J...Joh...John!" he eventually managed to get out.

Sherlock beamed. "That's right."

"John!" Hamish said again, crawling off of his father's lap and into the doctor's. "Dah!" he pointed to Sherlock.

"Yes, that's your Daddy," John confirmed.

As John sat and played with the infant, Sherlock flicked through the boy's file.

"He can't walk," he suddenly announced. "He should be able to walk."

"Children all develop at different speeds, Sherlock, I wouldn't worry about it. He seems perfect." John smiled as the baby covered his eyes up with his chubby little hands, clearly wanting to play a game, and apparently under the impression that if he couldn't see John, John couldn't see him. "Oh no!" the doctor overdramatically exclaimed, causing Sherlock's head to shoot up from what he was reading. "Where has Hamish gone?" Hamish giggled as John began pretending to look all around the car for him. "Is he under this?" John lifted the boy off of his lap, holding him in the air so he could look in the space he had left.

"No!" Hamish said, as if John were a complete idiot. He uncovered his face and burst into another fit of giggles as John feigned surprise.

"I'll never be able to do this." Sherlock sighed, returning to the file in his hands.

"Of course you will. It'll just take some practice."

"And what practice have you had?"

"Little kids come into the clinic all the time."

"Dah?" Hamish looked worriedly at the frown on his father's face.

"High level of emotional understanding," Sherlock noted. "I'm fine, Hamish."

Hamish apparently did not believe him. He crawled out of John's lap, across the seat, and into Sherlock's. Once there, he pulled himself into a standing position, his father's shirt clasped in his fists to steady him. Now, he could reach Sherlock's face, and he carefully let go of his shirt, pressing his fingers to the corners of the detective's mouth, gently pushing them upward until he was smiling. When he pulled his hands away, Sherlock's face broke into a genuine grin, and Hamish laughed and clapped his hands, settling himself back in his lap, snuggling into his chest. Sherlock scooped him up and held him close, placing a gentle kiss on top of his head, before glancing over at John and blushing.

"Where are we going to put him?" Sherlock said, just as John reached over to look at Hamish's file.

"Christ!"

"What?" Sherlock glared at him for ignoring his question.

"Did you read this?"

"I skimmed it."

"Listen, 'The subject has shown little response to hot-housing, his speech not progressing past that of a slightly-above-average child. Subject does, however, respond well to physical affection. I recommend his physical affection quota be increased to at least three embraces per day.' That's from last week."

"Only three?"

"Only three," John sighed. "Poor little thing. He's had more than that in the last half-an-hour. No wonder he wasn't thriving. Listen, we'll have to stop somewhere on the way to get some furniture and stuff for him, Sherlock."

"That will not be necessary," the driver's voice drawled from the front of the car. "Mr. Holmes the senior has already taken care of it."

It only took them an hour to return to Baker Street and John looked to his flat mate in confusion.

"Mycroft is trying to throw us off. He thinks this means I won't know where he took us," Sherlock explained, carefully stepping out of the car with Hamish still in his arms.

Mrs. Hudson rushed out of the front door and waited for them. "Oh there you two are, you've been gone all day. I've just put something in the slow cooker for your dinner; I thought you'd need a bit of help, what with the baby and all. Now, let me see him." She bustled down the front steps to stand with them. "Oh, look, he looks just like you, Sherlock."

"Hamish, this is Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock introduced.

"Hmmm," the little boy was apparently too tired to even bother trying to say her name.

"I think we'd better get him upstairs," John decided.

"Oh, yes, some men came earlier and they brought all the furniture. Did you order it already, Sherlock? It was very quick."

"Mycroft," he said shortly as he pushed past her and walked up the stairs to find a vast number of toddler-related items filling their flat.

A cot, a highchair, a toy box, a playpen, two changing tables, four boxes labeled 'TOYS', another four labeled 'CLOTHES', and two boxes labeled 'LINEN'.

"They really went all-out, didn't they?" John said before turning to look at Sherlock, who was staring at his son with a rather panicked expression.

Hamish had fallen asleep, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder, a little fist clutching at his shirt. "Oh. Just put him on your bed for a minute while we move the cot. Where were you planning on putting him?"

"I suppose in my room. We don't have the space for him anywhere else."

"We could move somewhere..."

"Move?!" It was apparently the most ridiculous thing Sherlock had ever heard so John backpedalled.

"Or he could just sleep in your room. I think that would be fine."

"Yes." Sherlock laid the baby on his bed, surrounding his little body with pillows in case he decided to roll over in his sleep. He had a bit of trouble removing the boy's hand from its tight hold on his shirt, but eventually he was able to leave him and help John move the cot and a changing table into his bedroom. They set it up with dinosaur sheets and the blanket from Hamish's cot at the facility, and Sherlock moved to pick Hamish up. "Should we... should we put some pajamas on him?"

"Just take his jeans off, he should be fine. It's just an afternoon nap."

Eventually the little boy was sound asleep in his cot, his thumb in his mouth, his other hand wrapped around the blanket.


	3. Jam

**Chapter 3 – Jam**

John spent the next two hours trying, unsuccessfully, to make Sherlock eat some lunch while his flat mate 'unpacked' all of the boxes, which basically involved opening each one and throwing its contents around the room. He kicked the last box at the wall once he'd finished. "There are no books!"

"Books?"

"What are we supposed to read to him?"

"Oh... Did you want me to go and get some?"

Sherlock sighed and threw himself onto the sofa, ignoring the piles of baby clothes strewn across it. "It's fine. I'm sure I have something I can read him for the time being."

"Yeah. So... are you going to eat something?"

"Not. Hungry."

There was suddenly a loud cry from Sherlock's bedroom and both men looked up in shock.

"He's awake," John noted.

"Yes." Sherlock stood and cautiously walked to his bedroom.

John stayed put. The second the door opened, the crying stopped and he heard Hamish's cheery little voice say, "Dah!" He smiled, standing to make himself another cup of tea.

A few minutes later Sherlock and Hamish emerged, the younger of the two with a large grin plastered across his little face, his jeans back on. "He needed changing, and he's hungry."

"I'll make him something."

"Thank you, John."

"You want to come with me, Hame? We'll get you some lunch."

"John!" He clapped his hands and bounced about in Sherlock's arms until he was handed to the doctor.

"Now, what can I get you? Toast?"

"Mhmm." Hamish rested his head on John's shoulder, pressing his little body as close as he could get it to the doctor's.

John put some bread in the toaster and sat Hamish on the floor as he went through the fridge, trying to find something, preferably not toxic, to put on his toast. "Jam?" he held up a jar of strawberry jam.

"Jam!" Hamish agreed.

"Hey, Sherlock, can you bring that highchair in here?"

A few seconds later, Sherlock appeared in the doorway with a highchair and a bib.

"Dah!"

"Hello, Hamish."

"Dah, jam."

"Are you having jam?"

"Mhmm."

"How about we get you in this highchair?"

"No!" Hamish shouted, glaring at the detective. He began kicking and screaming and trying to squirm out of Sherlock's arms as he picked him up and moved towards the highchair.

Just as Sherlock began wrestling his son into the chair, Mrs. Hudson bustled through the doorway, clearly thinking they were incapable of being in charge of a small child, which, by the looks of things, they were.

"Are you boys going alright?" She placed a box labeled 'CHILDRENS BOOKS' on the dining table and a plate of still-hot biscuits on the bench and smiled at the detective, who was still having no luck putting the infant in his highchair.

Hamish would tense up his entire body and place his feet on top of the tray of the highchair, rather than into the seat so they could be threaded through the leg-holes.

"For God's sake, Hamish!"

The little boy looked up in fear at his father's shout and began to cry.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." Sherlock lifted him into his arms, but Hamish resisted, pushing against his chest when he tried to bring him close. Sherlock was, however, stronger and slightly more stubborn, so eventually won. "I'm sorry for shouting at you, Hamish. I'm sorry. It's alright, I'm not angry. But you need to sit appropriately in your seat or you can't have your lunch. "

"Mhmm." Hamish relaxed back in his father's arms and finally allowed himself to be placed in the highchair. When Sherlock tried to put his bib on, the baby began whining and pushing his hands away.

"Choose your battles, dear," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes."

"Toast's ready." John tried to sound as cheerful as he could. He spread a generous amount of jam over the toast, cut it into four triangles, and handed the plate to Sherlock.

The detective sat for a moment, trying to work out how to feed it to his son, finally deciding upon hand-feeding the child. As he picked up a piece of toast Hamish frowned.

"No!"

"No?"

"Ham do," he said, reaching for it with a chubby hand.

"You want to do it?"

"Mhmm."

"Here you go, then." He put the plate on the highchair tray and Hamish happily set about eating it.

While the little boy was momentarily distracted, Sherlock managed to secure the bib around his neck, grinning triumphantly. Hamish glared at him and returned to his toast.

"Well done, Sherlock, love, that was quite impressive for a new dad," Mrs. Hudson praised.

"He's more trouble than I expected."

"Yeah, I wonder where he gets that from." John chuckled to himself as he poured three cups of tea.

"Dah?" Hamish was holding a piece of toast in Sherlock's direction.

"Yes, it's your toast."

"No."

"No?"

"Dah."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

The boy thought for a minute, then scrunched up his little face in concentration. "For Dah," he finally managed to say.

"For me?"

"Mhmm."

"No, thank you, Hamish, I'm not hungry."

"No!" The little boy would, apparently, not give up so Sherlock took the toast from his hand and ate it. Hamish clapped, smiled and returned to his own food.

"Thank you, Hamish."

"Excellent sharing, Hamish," John gave the boy a big smile which was readily reciprocated.

"Sharing?" Sherlock pulled a face.

"Yes, Sherlock, sharing."

"John?" Hamish was holding up his last piece of toast.

"No, Hame, it's alright, you go ahead. I already had lunch."

"Mhmm." He shoved the entire piece into his mouth and sat as he ate it, tapping his hands cheerily on the tray of his highchair.

"Why is it alright for you to say no?"

"He was just being polite when he asked me. You look hungry."

"Polite? He's an infant."

John shrugged and returned to his tea.

"Dah." Hamish was finished and had his arms raised above his head, clearly wanting to be let out of the highchair.

"Oh, you're all sticky," Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he glanced at the jam smeared across his son's face and covering his little hands. He was hit in the back of the head with a flannel John had thrown at him and started trying to wipe Hamish clean.

"No!" The little boy began squirming as soon as the flannel moved in his direction. He kicked and screamed and wriggled and almost toppled the highchair over more than once.

"Hamish, sit still," Sherlock had mastered his parent voice, lots of authority with a hint of anger but not anywhere near enough to frighten the boy.

"No!"

Sherlock held the back of his head while he haphazardly wiped his face, ignoring the fact that the child had started to cry. He wiped his chubby fingers clean and took off the bib. Finally, he lifted the now-very-unhappy toddler from the highchair.

Hamish continued to cry as Sherlock walked to the living room, baby on his hip, looking for something to entertain him with.

Suddenly, Hamish dived forwards, causing Sherlock to very nearly drop him. Once he'd regained his hold on him, the child squirmed and pushed him away with his little hands, still crying rather loudly.

"Hamish, it's alright, it's over, I only wiped you face anyway."

"No!" he shouted, shoving his father's chest again.

"Fine." And Sherlock placed the boy in his playpen, throwing a few toys in after him and proceeding to sulk on the sofa.

John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged looks and a silent conversation, which ended with Mrs. Hudson going back downstairs, and John sorting out his flat mates.

Hamish was still crying in the playpen, and Sherlock was lying on the sofa, facing the back of it and huffing.

"Alright, Hamish, it's alright." John moved towards the boy, which only caused him to cry louder, crawling as far away from him as he could. "What's wrong? It's just me, it's John. Everything's okay, Hamish."

"No!"

"Why is he frightened?" John looked up to see Sherlock, now sitting, eyeing his son with worry.

"I don't know what's wrong."

"What have they done to him?"

"I guess it's just the new environment. He's really little and he's just been pulled out of his old home, awful as it was, and thrown into a new one with complete strangers." John was actually quite concerned about the child in the playpen but tried not to let on to his flat mate.

"He was fine before."

"Hamish, come here, do you want some more jam?"

"No," he sobbed, rubbing his eyes with his little fists.

John sat, as unthreateningly as he could, in front of the playpen, a gentle smile on his face, waiting for the toddler to stop crying.

It was another twenty minutes before Hamish calmed down, his throat was probably sore and he looked exhausted.

"Alright, Hamish," John was using the voice he only ever brought out when he had a particularly frightened child at the clinic. "Now do you want to come up here? I think you need a little cuddle."

"No," he whimpered, scurrying to the other side of the playpen.

"It's alright, Hamish, shhh. Everything's okay." John scooped him up into his arms before he had the chance to crawl away again and the little boy started sobbing, although was too tired to fight the doctor.

John swayed back and forth, holding the toddler close to his chest and humming.

After nearly half an hour of this, Hamish had relaxed a little, only hiccupping every now and then.

"Good boy, now what can I get you, Hame? Do you want something to eat?"

"No."

"Some milk?"

"No. Bluh."

"Sorry?"

"Bluh."

"Your blanket?" Sherlock asked, cocking his head.

"Mhmm."

"Where is your blankie, Hame?"

"It's in his cot, John. I'll get it." Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and emerged a few moments later with the mangy-looking blue blanket, handing it to his son.

Hamish cuddled it to himself and sighed, finally resting his head against John's shoulder.

"What happened?" Sherlock was apparently quite shaken by the events of the last hour or so.

"It's alright, Sherlock. He's very little. He's still a baby, really. He just got confused and scared, I think."

"What do we do now?"

John ignored the fact that this was the most questions he'd ever heard Sherlock ask in one day and said, "I think Hamish needs a little bit of playtime with Daddy, then dinner, bath and bed. You want to have a cuddle with Dad, little man?"

"Mhmm," the boy looked skeptical, but allowed himself to be passed over to Sherlock.

The detective gently pulled his son against his chest, running his hand over the toddler's dark curls. "It's alright, Hamish."

Hamish sighed again and relaxed into his father's arms, allowing him to walk them over to the couch and sit down.

"Here, read him one of these books Mrs. Hudson brought up." John threw one in their direction.

"The Little Red Hen?" Sherlock said in disgust.

Hamish clapped excitedly, finally at ease again, and Sherlock sighed, opening the book and starting to read.


	4. Dinner, Bath and Bed

**Chapter 4 – Dinner, Bath and Bed**

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's voice travelled up the stairs and into their flat and John leant over the railing to shout back.

"Everything alright, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, fine, dear, I just need some help to bring your dinner up."

* * *

When they reached the top of the stairs, John carrying the slow cooker, Sherlock was lying on the floor with his son sitting on his chest. They appeared to be playing peek-a-boo.

The world's only consulting detective covered his face with his hands and Hamish giggled. John and Mrs. Hudson stood silently in the doorway.

"Ah-boo!" Sherlock quickly removed his hands and Hamish started laughing so hard he nearly fell off of his perch on his father's chest. "Oh. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not at all, dear. I'll leave you to it then."

"You sure you don't want to stay?" John plugged the cooker in to keep it warm until they were ready for it.

"No, thank you, John, I've got cards tonight with the girls."

"Oh, of course. Forgot it was Wednesday. Have a good night then."

* * *

The Holmes' played on the floor of 221B for another hour before John decided it was dinner time. Sherlock carried Hamish into the kitchen and with a quick glance between his son and the highchair, decided to sit the toddler on his lap.

John scooped out three servings of Mrs. Hudson's stew, placing two in front of his flat mates, and carrying the other to his own place at the table.

Sherlock fed his son and stood to put the boy's dish in the sink, child still in his arms, when Hamish spoke.

"Dah?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Dah." He pointed toward Sherlock's abandoned dish, still sitting on the table.

"Oh, I'm not hungry."

"No!"

"You really should eat something, Sherlock."

"I ate a few hours ago."

"You ate a quarter of a piece of toast a few hours ago and prior to that, you hadn't eaten anything for two days. Besides, you wouldn't want to offend Mrs. Hudson."

"Fine." He sighed, rolled his eyes, and sat back down, trying to place Hamish on the ground.

"No! Dah!"

"Alright, it's alright, get a grip."

So, Sherlock Holmes ate his dinner, all of it, with his sixteen-month-old son balanced on his knee.

He was given a round of applause by the toddler when he finished and John laughed.

"Right, bath time, Hame." John turned from where he'd dumped his and Sherlock's dishes in the sink to find a very defiant little boy glaring at him.

"No!"

"Yes."

"Come on, Hamish." Sherlock stood with the boy in his arms and headed towards the bathroom. Hamish began kicking him and shouting.

"No! Dah! No!"

Sherlock lay his son on the changing table that they'd slotted into the bathroom, although there wasn't really room for it, placing both hands firmly on the boy's stomach to stop him from escaping.

"God you are difficult!" Sherlock said through gritted teeth as he thwarted Hamish's sixth attempt at throwing himself off of the table.

John chuckled to himself and his flat mate's head whipped around to fix him with a Sherlockian glare.

"What is so amusing?"

"It seems just, that's all."

"Just?"

"He's just like you, Sherlock. It's giving you a taste of what I've been living with for the last four years."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked back to his son as John started the bath.

He carefully pulled the boy's shirt off and Hamish began to cry again.

"Shhh, Hamish, it's alright. Do you think he's scared of the bath?" Sherlock frowned as he tried to calm his son, awkwardly patting his head.

"I hope not. I'll get some of those toys and bring them in."

John reappeared a moment later with an armful of bath toys. Sherlock had completely undressed little Hamish, save his nappy, and was holding him against his chest, gently rocking him.

The doctor turned the water off and dumped the toys into the bath while Sherlock removed the still-crying toddler's nappy and carried him over to the tub.

As his father moved to lower him into the water, Hamish gripped tightly onto his shirt, refusing to let go, his cries becoming close to hysterical.

"It's alright, Hame." John wet a face washer and ran it down the little boy's back, trying to get him used to the water.

"No! No, Dah! No!" He clung tighter onto Sherlock's shirt, holding his body as far away from the water as he could without falling out of the detective's arms.

"How about Daddy gets in with you, Hamish?" John suggested, persisting with the flannel against his back.

"Mhmm," he murmured into Sherlock's shoulder.

"You'll have to go to John for a minute while I get my clothes off, okay?"

"Mhmm."

John held Hamish close as his flat mate stripped, thankfully only down to his pants, and stepped into the bath, sitting in the water just as the boy stopped crying.

John moved to pass Hamish over and he panicked. "No!" He buried his face in the crook of John's neck and instantly started sobbing again.

"Hamish, listen to me, everything's alright, Daddy will be in there with you. Nothing is going to happen. You're going to have fun."

"Look at all the toys John put in for us to play with, Hamish."

Hamish's sobs settled down into little sniffles and John tried again. He slowly passed Hamish over until he was in Sherlock's hold. The toddler pulled himself up so that only his toes grazed the top of the water.

"Hamish, look at this boat!"

John held the boat in front of the boy but his hand was pushed away with a loud, "No!"

"It's alright, look, Daddy's in the water."

"It's very nice," Sherlock assured him.

"Wouldn't you like to try it out?" John tried appealing to the Holmes curiosity to no avail. Little Hamish simply shook his head, and held tighter onto his father.

"Why is he so scared of it?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I want you to call Mycroft about it once we're done in here. What about some bubbles, Hamish?" John scooped up a pile of foam from the water and carefully placed it on Hamish's head. "Look, it's a hat!" He grabbed a hand mirror from the basin and held it up so the toddler could see himself.

"Hat!" His little face finally broke into a smile and he giggled at his reflection. "Dah hat?"

"You can make a hat for Daddy, if you like."

Hamish's eyes widened when he realised what this would require.

"It's alright, Hamish, I've got you," Sherlock told him, running his fingers through the boy's curls. "Do you want to just sit on my lap?"

"Mhmm."

Sherlock moved him onto his thigh so that his little legs were submerged, but he retained a firm hold around his son's middle.

"Dah!" Hamish's small hand grabbed onto Sherlock's and he looked up at him, eyes full of fear.

"Shhh, it's alright. Is the water warm?"

"Mhmm."

"Is it nice?"

He hesitated. "Mhmm."

"Do you like it?"

"No."

"Right. Are you going to make me a hat?"

"Mhmm." Unfortunately, all of the bubbles had moved to the other end of the bath. He stretched his little arms as far as he could but they were out of his reach.

"I'm right here, Hamish. And John's just there." The infant sat still for a moment, mulling this over, before lowering himself off of Sherlock's lap and carefully shuffling towards the other end of the bath.

He panicked a little when he got there and took hold of John's hand, while he gathered foam in his other. He scooted back to Sherlock and pulled himself up so he could reach the top of his head, where he placed a pile of bubbles.

"Hat, Dah!"

"Well done, Hamish." Sherlock kissed his cheek, and John left them alone.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, John returned to find Sherlock and Hamish out of the bath, arguing about his pyjamas.

"No, Dah!"

"Hamish, you have to wear them or you'll be cold."

"No!"

"How was your bath, Hamish?"

The little boy grinned up at John. "Boat!"

"Did you play with the boat?"

"Mhmm."

"Aha!" While the boy had been distracted, Sherlock had managed to pull the jumpsuit onto his legs and was now trying to wrestle his arms into it.

"No!"

"What else did you play with, Hamish?"

"Duh."

"Sorry?"

"Duh." Hamish fixed him a look he had been given by Sherlock thousands of times. It was the 'how could you possibly be so stupid as to ask that question' look. John knew it well, and almost laughed when he was given it by the baby.

"The duck," Sherlock translated.

"Oh, the duck. What's the duck's name?"

Hamish ignored his question. The detective had managed to force his arms into the sleeves of his pajamas and the toddler was now trying to remove them again, while Sherlock attempted to do the studs up.

"No!"

"There." The little boy was finally dressed. Sherlock smiled and Hamish glared at him.

"What's on your pajamas, Hame?" John picked him up so Sherlock could dry himself off.

Hamish shrugged.

"Have they got trains on them?"

"Mhmm."

"Why don't we come out here and I'll read you a story, and then it will be time for bed."

"Mhmm. Bluh."

"Yeah, your blankie's out there, I think."

Once they'd found the blanket, John sat on the sofa with Hamish on his lap, and read him another book, something about a lion, while Sherlock got changed.

"Dah!" Hamish shouted just as John finished reading. Sherlock was standing in pajama pants and a dressing gown, his hair frizzy from the steam in the bathroom.

"Ready for bed?"

"Tee!"

The two men both looked confusedly at him and, for a moment, it looked as if he would roll his eyes at them.

He pointed to his teeth and they smiled.

"Yes, we have to brush your teeth." Sherlock lifted him from John's lap, sitting him on the counter in the bathroom while the doctor found a toddler toothbrush and toothpaste in the items delivered by Mycroft.

Hamish apparently had no problem at all with having his teeth brushed and soon, Sherlock was putting him in his cot.

"No! Dah, no!" His shouts were not defiant, they were full of fear, and Sherlock quickly lifted him back into his arms.

"Hamish, it's time for bed."

"Dah stay?"

"I'm just going to be in the next room. And then later, when I go to bed, I'm going to sleep just there, in my bed."

"Stay?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced to the doorway, where John stood. The doctor nodded.

"I... I'll only stay tonight, Hamish, do you understand?"

"Mhmm."

Sherlock pulled the side of the cot down and lay his son in it. He then sat on the floor, his hand resting on his little boy's back.

Hamish was asleep in a few minutes, his thumb in his mouth and his other hand clutching his blanket. Sherlock kissed his forehead, pulled up the side of the cot, and headed back out to the living room.

"It's hard work," he said as he slumped into his armchair.

"It's a full time job. Hey, I found why he's scared of the bath, not surprising in the slightest." He held up Hamish's file. "It's from four months ago. 'Incident occurred during bathing, nurse turned her back and subject slipped beneath the water. Was submerged for almost five seconds but no permanent damage done. Kept under constant medical surveillance for 48 hours following the incident. Subject has developed phobia of masses of water. Now is only bathed once per week due to the difficulty of the task.' I almost feel bad for making him do it."

"He'll get used to it eventually. He just needs to feel safe."

"He already feels safer than he ever has before, Sherlock."

"Bloody Mycroft."

"He'll be alright now."

"What are we going to do with him when we're on a case?"

"I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind looking after him now and then." John smiled. How ridiculous it was that he and Sherlock were discussing this stuff. Parent stuff.

"What?"

"Nothing, it's just... odd having a little kid here."

"Mmm."

* * *

Sherlock had been asleep for half an hour when Hamish woke up the first time. His eyes snapped open the second he heard his son's cries and he flew out of bed and over to the cot, ensuring there was nothing wrong with the baby. Hamish barely settled when he took him into his arms so Sherlock paced the room, humming and rocking the infant back and forth.

"Shhh, Hamish, it's alright, everything's alright. You need to go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?" John stood in the doorway in his pajamas, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, his hair ruffled.

"Fine, thank you, John, he just won't settle."

"Are you hungry, Hame?"

"No," he sniffled, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's just the strange environment, don't worry too much. But I don't think you'll be getting much sleep tonight. Sing out if you need anything."

"Goodnight, John."

"Ni, John." Hamish stuffed a thumb in his mouth as Sherlock rocked him to sleep.


	5. Ubstred and My

**Chapter 5 – Ubstred and My**

Hamish woke up six times in the night. That first time, it had taken Sherlock nearly an hour to put him back down. As the night wore on, the time it took for Hamish to settle became shorter and shorter.

The last time he woke up was at five-thirty and he simply refused to go back to bed.

John got up at seven and headed downstairs to find a very tired Sherlock Holmes, lying in the playpen with his son, helping him do some sort of puzzle.

"How long have you been up?"

"Hour and a half."

"Right." It was strange that Sherlock looked as tired as he did; he often didn't sleep for days with no side effects at all. John supposed the last thirty-six hours had been rather stressful. "Tea?"

"Please."

"How many times did he get up?"

"Six."

"His sleep'll be mucked up today then. We'll have a quiet day and see if we can stretch him out until lunchtime. His file says he only has one sleep a day."

"Jam?" Hamish looked hopefully at John.

"Do you want some toast?"

"Mhmm. Jam."

"Yeah, you can have jam on it. Do you want to come and help me and Daddy can go have a shower."

"No! Dah!" He grabbed onto Sherlock with an iron grip and his bottom lip began to tremble.

"Hamish, it's alright, I won't be long and John will be here."

"Come?"

"No, I want you to stay here. I'll be quick."

"No!"

"Hamish, you're being silly, I'm only going to be a minute." And he picked up the boy, passing him over to his flat mate and heading into the bathroom.

John stood still for a moment so that Hamish could see that his father was, in fact, simply having a shower, and not permanently leaving or whatever it was that the boy thought was happening.

"Okay, Hame?"

"Mhmm."

"Right then, let's see about this jam."

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in his pajamas and a dressing gown.

"Not getting dressed today, then?"

"You said we were having a quiet day."

"Yeah, I did. Do you want breakfast?"

"Jam, Dah?"

"Yes, I'll have some toast, thank you."

Once they were all fed, Sherlock dressed Hamish in a white and blue striped shirt that reminded him of one of John's, and a little pair of jeans. He also put socks on him but they only stayed on the toddler's feet for about three seconds before they were pulled off and thrown across the room.

As they left their bedroom, they heard footsteps on the stairs.

"Ah, Lestrade," said Sherlock as if everything was as it always had been and there was not a sixteen-month-old child on his hip.

Then Hamish spoke and it sounded something like "Ubstred" and nothing like 'Lestrade', who smiled at the little boy.

"This isn't an experiment is it?" He looked mildly concerned.

"Not anymore," John grinned. "This is Hamish. He's Sherlock's."

"Sorry, what? Sherlock's?"

"A government experiment. Anyway, that doesn't matter now. Hamish, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's our friend."

"Hello, Hamish."

"Ubstred." Hamish smiled at his new friend and Lestrade booped him on the nose, earning himself a delighted giggle.

"I wish we had kids."

"That wouldn't have worked. You would never have gotten custody of them, you wouldn't ever see them." Lestrade sighed and John elbowed Sherlock in the ribs. "Here you go then." He deposited Hamish in Lestrade's arms and the toddler panicked.

"Dah!"

"It's alright, Hamish. Lestrade is our friend. And I'm not going anywhere."

"You can sit with Lestrade while he talks to Daddy about work."

"Dah, stay."

"Yes, I'm staying."

Sherlock pulled the armchairs over so that they faced the sofa. He and Lestrade sat down and John made tea.

"Is this… permanent?" Lestrade gestured towards the toddler who was now playing with the buttons on his coat.

"Of course it is," said Sherlock, as if the man was complete moron.

"Right… great… I'm… really happy for you."

"Get on with it, Lestrade. Why are you here?"

"Are you sure he's alright to hear this? It's pretty gory."

"It's fine, he won't understand."

"Sherlock Holmes' child, not understand?" Lestrade laughed.

"He's not even listening; will you just get on with it?"

"Triple murder, two kids and their father. Father's body pretty much mutilated but the kids were just shot, straight in the foreheads. Mother's been dead for three years, cancer, no known relatives in the country, they're German, no signs of a break in but murder and suicide by the father is obviously not likely, known associates all check out okay. Are you in?"

"Tomorrow."

"What?"

"We're having a quiet day today. Hamish didn't sleep well."

"Can't you leave him with Mrs. Hudson or something?"

"As you can see, Lestrade, in his current psychological state he is not particularly keen on letting me out of his sight."

Hamish suddenly started crying and buried his face in Lestrade's chest, clinging onto his shirt for dear life.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Lestrade awkwardly patted his back and Sherlock glanced at the door.

Mycroft Holmes stood, leaning on his umbrella, a frown drawn across his face.

"Ah," John gently took Hamish from Lestrade as he was having a considerable amount of trouble calming him down, while Sherlock confronted his brother.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"I came to see how things were going." He pulled a face at the way John was speaking to his little experiment.

"Shhh, Hamish it's alright. It's just Uncle Mycroft. Everything's fine, little man, you're staying here with me and Daddy, okay?"

"Things were going fine until he saw you. Incidentally, I would have appreciated my son not being half drowned; bathing is now incredibly difficult for him."

John had finally settled the toddler, although he still had a clump of John's jumper clutched in one fist.

"There is no need to mollycoddle the boy, John," Mycroft drawled.

"Mycroft, he's a baby, an actual baby. He's not even close to two years old. This is how he should be spoken to and cared for. Whatever the hell you and your people have been doing to him for the last year and a half has seriously stunted his development. Sherlock, you're right, he should be walking by now, especially with that brain he's got, but he isn't. Mycroft, Hamish has said more words in the last twenty-four hours than he's said in the last year. He tries to repeat everything we say to him but his file says he is unresponsive to verbal stimuli. He is fine here, he is thriving, and we know what we're doing."

Mycroft looked a little taken aback by John's rant but quickly regained control. "I was merely worried about him as my nephew."

"Mycroft, we are not stupid." Sherlock glared at him before sitting back in his armchair.

"Well, if you're simply here in an uncle capacity, would you like some tea?" John smiled.

"Actually, yes please, Doctor Watson."

"Who would you like to go to, Hame?"

"Ubstred," he said decidedly. Apparently he had taken quite a liking to their guest.

"Double syllables," Mycroft noted.

"His talking's excellent," said Lestrade. He pointed to Sherlock. "Who's this, Hamish?"

"Dah."

"And who's that?"

"John."

"And who am I?"

"Ubstred."

"And who are you?"

"Ham."

"Who's that?" he pointed to Mycroft and Hamish shrugged. "That's your Uncle Mycroft."

Hamish looked at his father for confirmation. "He's your friend too, Hamish."

John laughed from the kitchen. Everyone else had been introduced as 'our friend'.

"My."

Mycroft almost smiled when the little boy said his name. He sat on the sofa next to Lestrade and Hamish eyed him with suspicion.

"It's alright, Hame," John assured him as he set the teas down.

He crawled off of Lestrade's lap and next to Mycroft who leant slightly away from the boy. Hamish cocked his head to one side, looking a little confused. "My?"

"Touch him, Mycroft, he isn't diseased." Sherlock glared at him again.

The elder Holmes placed a careful hand on top of the toddler's head and Hamish smiled, crawling up to sit in his lap. He snuggled as close as he could to his uncle's chest and began playing with his tie, pulling on it, examining it, tracing his fingers over it, inspecting the texture and pattern.

"That's my tie," Mycroft eventually informed him.

"Tie."

"Yes, that's right. He's quite a delight, isn't he?" He looked up at his brother, who was still glaring at him. "Sherlock, I really did not have that much to do with him. I wasn't aware that what they were doing was impeding his development. Hopefully here he will be able to reach his full potential."

"Dah!" Hamish was apparently bored of Mycroft and suddenly threw himself off of his lap. He would have landed on the floor had his uncle not caught him halfway down.

"Slow down there." He carefully lowered the toddler to the ground.

Hamish placed both hands on the edge of the coffee table and pulled himself into a standing position. He then cautiously, and constantly looking up at Sherlock for approval, began to make his way around the table, never letting go of it. He shuffled all the way around until he reached his father, who scooped him up and sat him on his lap.

"Well done, Hamish," Sherlock beamed with pride.

"Did you walk all the way round, Hame?" John grinned.

"Mhmm."

"Right, well, I'll be going then." Mycroft stood, straightened his tie and ruffled Hamish's curls. "Goodbye, Hamish, Lestrade, John, little brother."

"Bah, My!" Hamish waved enthusiastically.

"Yeah, I'd better be off too. Since you're not coming to help us, this is going to take longer than I thought."

"Tomorrow, Lestrade."

Lestrade stood, put his coat back on and waved at Hamish.

"Say goodbye, Hamish."

"Bah!"

"So much for having a quiet day," John sighed as he started reading the paper.


	6. Jam?

**Chapter 6 - Jam?**

"Alright, lunchtime. What would you like, Hamish?"

"Jam?" He looked hopefully up at John who shook his head.

"No, Hame, you've had enough jam today."

Not only had he had jam on his breakfast, but he'd eaten two helpings of jam and scones which Mrs. Hudson had made them, and John was worried about his nutrition. Hamish started crying and the doctor picked him up, rocking him a little.

"Let him be, John."

"Sherlock, we have to keep his vitamins up or he'll get sick. He'll have little or no immunity from living in that place until now so we've got to be careful. He needs to be eating something other than strawberry jam. Now come on, Hame, it's alright. We can have something different. What about scrambled eggs?"

"No. Jam."

"No more jam today. I'll make you some eggs. You'll like them."

"Mhmm." He rested his head on John's shoulder and was given a quick kiss on the forehead.

"Are you a bit tired, little man?"

"Mhmm."

"Yeah, well it's nearly time for your sleep. You did really well staying up all day, Hamish. And we had all those visitors this morning. Did you like Uncle Mycroft? Daddy and him don't get along very well but I don't mind him. I think he means well. And what about Inspector Lestrade? He's nice. Daddy will never say but he really quite likes Lestrade." John chatted away as he cooked the eggs with one hand, holding the toddler in his other arm. "Hamish, sometimes Daddy and I will have to go to work and Mrs. Hudson will look after you. That will be fun, won't it? You remember Mrs. Hudson, she brought us the scones."

"Jam?"

"Yes, I'm sure she's got jam. Have you ever been to the park, Hame?"

"No."

"Maybe we can go tomorrow. How about that?"

"Dah come?"

"Yes, Daddy could come too. Would you like to do that?"

"Mhmm."

"Alright, Sherlock, lunch is ready!"

"Not hungry!" he shouted from the living room.

"Well, whatever, but I need you to deal with your son."

"Right, yes, fine." He sauntered in and took Hamish from the doctor, moving towards the highchair.

"No!"

"Hamish, you will sit in there or you won't get lunch."

"No!"

"Hamish." Sherlock shot him a stern look and the little boy gave in, allowing himself to be slotted into the highchair.

"Here you go, little man." John handed him his eggs and a baby fork, knowing he wouldn't let anyone help him. "Say 'ta'."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Ta, John."

"What is going on?"

"He needs to learn manners, Sherlock; you have to start them when they're small."

"How ridiculous."

John rolled his eyes and Hamish giggled.

"Are you eating, Sherlock?"

"No."

"Right. It's just you and me then, Hame."

More egg ended up on the floor and in Hamish's hair than actually in his mouth but he'd eaten more than his father so John was happy.

"Bed?" The toddler put his fork down and looked up at Sherlock.

"Yes, time for bed now. Let me just wipe your face first, you're very messy."

"No!"

"Hamish."

"No!"

"You've got egg all over your face."

"No!"

"What if John does it?"

"No!"

"Hamish, stop that right now."

Sherlock attempted to wipe the boy's face, resulting in a full-blown temper-tantrum, which was ignored, while John picked as much scrambled egg out of Hamish's hair as he could.

The consulting detective was kicked in the groin and smacked in the head as he pulled his screaming son out of the highchair.

"Hamish, no." John's authoritative voice sounded behind the Holmes' and Hamish's eyes widened. He suddenly stopped shouting and kicking and looked up at the doctor. "We don't hit. We especially don't hit Daddy. Do you understand?"

The toddler's eyes filled with tears and he suddenly gripped Sherlock's shirt in a tight fist.

"It's alright, Hamish, but you need to say sorry to Daddy and give him a cuddle because you hurt him."

He looked earnestly into his father's eyes and whispered, "Soh, Dah," snuggling himself against his chest.

"It's alright, Hamish, never mind."

"Hurt?"

"I'm alright." He kissed his forehead. "Time for bed now."

John came into the living room ten minutes later to find Sherlock sitting on the sofa, typing furiously on his laptop.

"Did he go down okay?"

"Fine."

"What are you doing?"

"Updating his file, it's been horrendously maintained."

John's phone rang and he had to rummage through the baby clothes, toys and pages from Hamish's file that were strewn across the room to find it. "Hello?"

"Hey, John, it's Sarah. I'm just ringing to remind you that you start at the clinic in half-an-hour. You often forget that's all."

"Oh my God! Thank you so much for ringing. I'll see you soon." He hung up and looked about the living room in panic. "Sherlock, I have to go to work."

"What? You're leaving me here alone?"

"Yes, I have to go. I completely forgot. I've got to be there in half an hour."

"You're leaving me with him?"

"Yes."

"What if he wakes up?"

"That isn't a 'what if', Sherlock, I'll be gone until five."

"Five?!"

"Yes, five. You'll need to give him afternoon tea when he gets up. If you need anything, call Mrs. Hudson. Have a lovely afternoon, I'll see you later."

"Oh."

**A/N: This is a bit of a shorter chapter so I'll upload Chapter 7 tomorrow for you guys. Hope you enjoy it! :D**


	7. Coming Back

**Chapter 7 – Coming Back**

Hamish slept for two-and-a-half hours and was extremely grumpy when he woke up.

Sherlock had just finished updating his file when the toddler started crying.

"Hello, Hamish!" he said cheerfully as he pulled his bedroom door open.

The crying continued as the little boy was lifted from his cot and pulled into his father's arms.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock laid his son on the change table and attempted to change his nappy, but was shouted at and kicked instead.

"No! Dah!"

"Hamish, you've got a dirty nappy, I have to change it."

"No!"

"Hamish, will you just lie still?"

The toddler had begun trying to throw himself onto the floor as his father held him down.

"No! John!"

"John's not here, Hamish, he's at work."

That was the final straw. Hamish's eyes widened and he stuck his bottom lip out. It trembled and his eyes filled with tears until finally the boy burst into hysterics.

Sherlock lifted him up again and started rocking as the boy sobbed into his shoulder.

"Hamish, calm down. He'll be back soon."

"Back?"

"Yes, he's coming back, of course he's coming back. He'll only be gone for a little while."

"Is everything alright up there, boys?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, thank you."

"Where's John gone then?" She had climbed the stairs and now stood in the doorway to Sherlock's bedroom.

"He's at work."

"Back," Hamish informed her.

"Yes, he'll be back soon." Sherlock had managed to change his son's nappy and was putting his trousers back on when Hamish started shouting again.

"No!"

"Right, fine. No trousers for you, then."

He lowered the toddler to the floor and the little boy proceeded to remove his shirt as well, leaving him in his nappy.

"You'll be cold."

"No," he said gleefully, crawling out to the living room.

"Let me know if you need anything, Sherlock."

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

* * *

John managed to get through his entire shift without so much as a text from Sherlock and he didn't know if he should be worried or relieved.

"Are you alright, John? You seem a little off." Sarah frowned at him as he was leaving.

"I'm... yeah, I'm fine. Thanks."

"Is this something to do with Sherlock?"

"We... ah... he has a son. And he's living with us now. It was a bit of a last minute sort of thing. We're just settling into it," he blurted out.

"How old is he?"

"Sixteen months."

"A baby? You and Sherlock are taking care of a baby? I'd like to see that."

"He's doing really well actually. Anyway, I'd best be off. Don't want to leave them for too long."

* * *

John returned home to find his flat mates sitting on the sofa, watching some sort of documentary about sea life. Hamish was on his father's lap, his thumb in his mouth, wearing nothing but his nappy.

"John!" The little boy launched himself to the floor, only to be caught halfway and gently placed there by Sherlock. He crawled over to John as quickly as he could and the doctor pulled him into a cuddle.

"Hello, Hamish."

"Back!"

"Yes, I'm back."

The toddler gave a little hum and rested his head on John's shoulder.

"Is he alright?" He looked to Sherlock.

"He was rather distressed that you had gone. He thought you weren't coming back. After I explained to him that you were he was fine."

"Did you have afternoon tea, Hame?"

"Mhmm. Ananananan." He looked confused for a moment, frowning.

"Did you have a banana?"

"Yes!" he said triumphantly.

"He also learned to say 'yes'."

"John?" he pointed to the TV. "Ish!"

"Fish? Are there fish?"

"Yes."

"Where are your clothes, Hamish?"

"Off!"

"He didn't want to wear them."

"Aren't you cold?"

"No," the little boy smiled mischievously.

"How long did he sleep for?"

"Two hours and thirty-eight minutes."

"You had a big sleep, Hame."

"Mhmm."

* * *

Dinnertime was surprisingly successful. Hamish sat obediently in his highchair and Sherlock ate almost half of his dinner. The toddler only whinged a little when he had his face wiped and didn't cry until Sherlock mentioned a bath.

"No! John!"

"Yes, Hamish, you need a bath. It was fine yesterday, remember?"

"No!" He kicked and screamed and banged his fists against Sherlock's chest.

"Hamish, stop that, you're having a bath now. It's alright. I'm going to get in with you. Nothing is going to happen."

He cried for the first five minutes of his bath, clinging onto his father for dear life, before finally calming down and enjoying himself. He insisted upon making a bubble hat for John and then had an extremely animated conversation with him about the toy boat, most of which John couldn't actually understand. There were a lot of enthusiastic 'Oh's and 'I see's from the doctor.

When Sherlock finally announced that it was "time to get out", Hamish threw the boat at him.

"No!"

"Hamish, don't throw."

"No!"

"You are being ridiculous," Sherlock informed the toddler as he picked him up and stepped out of the bath, laying him down on a towel on the change table.

Hamish frowned and John handed him a toy to distract him from Sherlock getting him dressed, which also went more smoothly than the previous night.

In half an hour, Hamish had been read a story and put into bed.

"Dah!"

"Time to go to sleep, Hamish."

"Dah stay?"

"I'm going to be in the living room, Hamish."

"No!"

"Yes. It's alright. I'll just be out there. Goodnight."

With a kiss to the boy's forehead, Sherlock left, pulling the door closed behind him.

As the door clicked shut, Hamish instantly started crying.

"Leave him, Sherlock. He should calm down."

After ten minutes of Hamish crying and both John and Sherlock fidgeting agitatedly in their seats, the flat fell silent. They left it another ten before they checked on the boy.

There he was sound asleep, a thumb in his mouth, his free hand wrapped tightly around his blanket.

"Well, that's day two done." John smiled as they pulled the door closed again.

* * *

Sherlock was up in the night with Hamish when they heard a shout from upstairs.

"John?" the little boy looked very worried.

Concerned, Sherlock slowly climbed the stairs, Hamish still in his arms, and pushed John's bedroom door open.

The doctor was still asleep, thrashing around on the bed and Hamish started crying.

"It's alright, Hamish, he's just having a nightmare."

He crossed over to the bed and carefully sat down, Hamish on his lap, clinging to his shirt.

"John," he said gently. "John, wake up. You're having a nightmare."

The doctor's eyes suddenly snapped open and he grabbed hold of the object nearest to him, which happened to be Sherlock's hand.

"Oh," he said as he looked up. "Sorry," and he dropped his flat mate's hand.

"We heard you from downstairs and were making sure everything was alright."

"It's fine, sorry."

"John?" Little Hamish had tears in his eyes and was still tightly grasping a handful of Sherlock's shirt.

"I'm alright, Hamish, I'm sorry to frighten you." John sat up and pulled the toddler into his arms, holding him tightly for a moment before handing him back to Sherlock. "I'm alright, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

"Ni, John."

"Goodnight, little man."

Hamish was asleep before Sherlock even reached their bedroom and he didn't wake up again until the morning.

**A/N: As promised, here is chapter 7. Thanks for all of the reviews, follows and favourites, they mean a lot. Chapter 8 will go up on Wednesday :)**


	8. The Park

**Chapter 8 – The Park**

During the night, Hamish had experimented and instead of crying when he woke up, he had taken to simply calling Sherlock. He was now confident that his father wasn't going anywhere, and simply shouting "Dah!" a few times took much less effort than crying did, with the same level of efficiency.

So, it was with a "Dah!" that Sherlock was woken up the next morning.

"Hamish?"

"Dah!"

5AM.

"Dah!"

"Yes, I'm coming. Can't you go back to sleep for a little while?"

"No!"

"What about in my bed?"

"Mhmm."

"Excellent. Is your nappy dirty?"

"Yes."

"Right, we'd better see to that first then."

Finally, Sherlock carried a clean Hamish back to his bed, lowered him down and lay next to him. Hamish wriggled over so that his entire body was pressed against his father's, and they fell asleep.

John got up at 7:15AM to a silent flat and panicked as he always did when Baker Street was quiet.

"Sherlock?"

He quietly pushed Sherlock's bedroom door open to reveal both of his flat mates fast asleep. Hamish was lying on Sherlock's chest, blanket in hand, thumb in mouth, while Sherlock had a hand placed securely on the boy's back.

Hamish stirred and slowly rolled off of his father's chest. Sherlock didn't move.

"John?"

"Shhh, Hame," John whispered. "You want to come out here with me so Daddy can sleep a bit more?"

"Yes."

John silently slipped from the room, Hamish in his arms, and closed the door.

"Do you need me to change you?"

"No, Dah."

"Did Daddy do it already?"

"Mhmm."

"Do you want breakfast?"

"No, ish!" he pointed enthusiastically at the TV.

"Oh, no, the fish aren't on there anymore. It's finished."

"More?"

"No, not today. Sorry, Hame. Breakfast?"

"Mhmm. Jam."

"Alright, I'll see what I can do."

"Park?"

"Well, somebody has a good memory. We can go to the park today if you'd like."

"Yes. Dah come?"

"Yeah, Daddy will come."

"Ubstred."

"Sorry?"

"Hamish is correct; I told Lestrade I'd look at that case today. But I'm sure he can wait until this afternoon." Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes and stretching.

"Uhk, John?"

"Ah..."

"Do you have work today, John?" Sherlock translated again.

"Oh. No, not today, Hame. So while Daddy goes to work, you can stay here with me."

"No, John, I need you."

"Well we can't take him."

"Hamish, would you like to stay with Mrs. Hudson while John and I go to work?"

The little boy's eyes widened and he fisted a hand in John's pajama shirt. "No."

"We can take him. We won't be going to the crime scene. Scotland Yard is very safe."

"Oh God," John sighed as he carried Hamish to the kitchen, sitting him on the bench while he made his breakfast.

"Ham come?"

"Yes, you're going to come to work with me and Daddy... apparently."

"Ubstred?"

"Yep, Lestrade will be there."

"My?"

"No, sorry, mate, no Mycroft today."

Hamish quite happily sat on the counter, swinging his little legs back and forth, eating his toast and watching John and Sherlock bustle around the flat getting ready for the day.

Once he'd finished eating he was wiped down, with very little complaining, and dressed. Jeans, a t-shirt with a dinosaur, and tiny little shoes and socks which were instantly removed.

"Hamish, you have to wear them or you can't go to the park."

"No, Dah!"

"Fine then, we'll just stay here."

"No! Park!"

"Well you have to put your shoes on."

Hamish gave a little grunt before allowing his father to put his shoes and socks back on.

"Are we nearly ready?" John entered their bedroom carrying a backpack. "I've got morning tea, nappies, wipes, a bib, as if he'll use it, some first-aid stuff just in case, a drink of water for him, tissues, a change of clothes, can you think of anything else?"

"That sounds like everything."

They bundled the boy up in a coat and beanie and took him downstairs where they tried to put him in his pram.

"No!"

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair in frustration and John sighed.

"Hamish. You have to go in the pram or we're not going to the park."

The toddler glared at him but allowed himself to be buckled in.

"Mrs. Hudson? We're just taking Hamish to the park." John knocked on her door and smiled when she opened it.

"Alright, then, have a lovely time, boys."

"Off we go then, Hame. Regent's Park?" John looked to his flat mate.

"Yes, there's a playground there."

Sherlock pushed the pram, a sight John was tempted to photograph and put on the blog, but decided against it, while he walked alongside them, listening to Hamish's running commentary which was almost entirely gibberish.

The little boy squealed with delight when they reached the playground, clapping his hands and kicking his feet enthusiastically.

"He's keen." A woman holding the hand of a child who looked to be a little older than Hamish smiled at John as he unbuckled the toddler from the pram.

"It's his first time."

"Oh." She gave them an odd look which said 'You terrible people, how could he have gotten to be this age and never been to the park?'

"He's mine," Sherlock spoke up and John's eyes widened in fear at what he was going to say to the woman. "We're just flat mates. I wasn't aware that Hamish existed until three days ago when his mother dumped him at our flat. I don't believe he's had a very good beginning to his life but we hope to be able to change that."

The woman was now apparently holding back tears and placed a hand on Sherlock's arm. "Well aren't you two wonderful taking him in like that?"

"He's worth it." John had finally figured out how to undo the straps and lifted a squirming Hamish into his arms.

"Park!"

"Yes, Hame, we're at the park."

"How old is he?" Her son had let go of her hand and run off to play on the equipment.

"Sixteen months on Tuesday. Is that right, Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh yes."

"Play?"

"I'll take you, Hamish, so John can talk to his new friend," Sherlock said with a bit of a sneer.

They headed over to the swings and John smiled. "Sorry about him, he's a bit... socially... awkward, I guess."

"Not at all. What do you two do?"

"I'm a doctor and Sherlock is a detective."

"He's not Sherlock Holmes is he?"

"Yeah, he is."

"Oh, goodness, really?"

"Yeah."

"So, you write the blog, then?"

"Yep. I write the blog."

"My husband reads it religiously."

"How old's your little one then?" John asked, eager to change the subject.

"Samuel's almost two. Is Hamish walking yet?"

"No, not yet. I think he was quite... under stimulated with his... ah... with his mother, so he's a little behind."

"I wouldn't worry about it. Once he's walking you'll be wishing he wasn't. His speech seems quite advanced."

"Yeah. He couldn't say much when we first got him but he's like a little parrot now."

"He's beautiful. Well I'd better be off. Samuel! We're going home now! It was lovely to meet you." She smiled and left, almost-two-year-old in hand, while John walked over to where Sherlock was pushing Hamish on the swing.

"Married," said the detective, not looking up from his son.

"Yeah."

"Are you surprised? She was wearing a wedding ring, John."

"Yeah, well, I didn't look did I?"

John jumped as Sherlock's phone rang, and took over pushing Hamish on the swing so he could answer it.

"Lestrade. Yes... we're coming this afternoon... Yes... Don't let him touch anything until I get there, I don't want any more evidence ruined... Yes... Alright... After Hamish's nap... Around two... Yes... Goodbye."

"Ubstred?"

"Yes, that was Lestrade."

"What was that business about his mother?"

"Hamish's?"

"Yeah."

"Well we have to come up with a story; we can't be telling everybody he's a government experiment."

"Of course."

They stood in silence for a few minutes. John pushing little Hamish on the swing while Sherlock stared around the park. Deducing.

When the doctor looked back to the toddler, he saw an expression almost identical to that of his father's.

"Sherlock," he whispered, trying not to distract the little boy.

"Mmm?"

"Look at him. He's deducing."

"So he is." A smile graced the detective's face, the kind that hardly anyone ever saw.

John took a picture on his phone, saving it as 'Hamish's first deductions'.

"How long have you wanted children for, John?"

"How did..." John rolled his eyes and sighed. "I've always wanted kids, to be honest. I just... once I got back from Afghanistan... I thought it wasn't ever going to happen. I'm actually pretty bad at relationships, as I'm sure you've noticed. I was never going to get far enough into one to get to marriage and kids. I'm glad we've got Hame."

"I feel the same. It seems that I now understand Jennifer Wilson now."

"Jennifer Wilson?"

"The pink lady."

"What about her?"

"At the time I didn't understand why her password would be the name of her daughter when she'd never even been alive. I understand the impact that children can have now." John fought a smile. "It's useful information," the detective added quickly.

"Yes. Right."

"Dah!" Hamish started wriggling around in his seat, battling with the buckle.

"Do you want to go on something else?" Sherlock asked as he slowed the swing to a stop.

"Mhmm." The little boy nodded eagerly and continued trying to undo the buckle.

"He's been on there for five seconds." John looked exasperatedly between the two Holmes'.

"He's bored. The slide, Hamish?"

"Yes."

Sherlock removed his son from the swing and carried him over to the smallest slide, carefully sitting him at the top.

"No! Dah!"

"What? It's alright, Hamish, slide down." He looked expectantly at the little boy who shook his head and stuck his bottom lip out, ready to start crying. "No, Hamish, don't cry, it's alright."

"He probably doesn't know what to do, Sherlock."

"Well isn't it obvious?"

"He's probably never seen a slide before. Hamish, what if Daddy helps you?"

He hesitated for a moment before slowly nodding. "Mhmm."

"I'll hold you this first time, alright?" Another nod.

So, Sherlock held his son around the waist and slowly helped him slide down to the bottom.

Hamish grinned, and clapped his hands. "More?"

"You can do it yourself this time. I'll put you up the top and you can slide down and I'll catch you at the bottom, alright?"

More hesitation. "Mhmm."

The detective placed Hamish at the top of the slide and moved away, crouching at the bottom, ready to catch him.

The toddler sat still for a few moments, considering things, before he carefully pushed himself off and slid all the way down and into his father's arms.

"Yay, Hamish!" John cheered from behind them, nudging Sherlock in the ribs when he didn't praise the boy.

"Yes, well done, Hamish. That was very brave."

"More?"

"Of course."

The slide kept the little boy occupied for almost twenty minutes, by the end of which he had somehow worked out how to climb from the bottom to the top without slipping back down.

"Oh," John had said. "He's a climber."

They stood close by while he climbed all over the play equipment. Up ladders and steps and through tunnels and back down the ladders and underneath the equipment. All despite the fact that he couldn't even walk yet.

At one point, John had been momentarily distracted by some passing female joggers and Sherlock had taken a brief trip to his mind palace, and they'd both only just tuned back into reality in time to remove Hamish from where he had almost managed to climb onto the roof of the equipment.

The first time he'd tried to climb down the stairs had resulted in him landing face first in the sawdust beneath the playground. Both men had seen him fall, but were standing slightly too far away to be able to catch him. Sherlock was actually in the middle of saying "Hamish, you need to go backwards," when the boy decided that, in fact, going headfirst was the best method for getting to the bottom. They felt their stomachs drop as they watched the infant slide on his stomach down the four steps at a frightening speed, hitting his head on the way down.

He lay still on the ground for half a second and Sherlock had him in his arms before he'd even started crying. Hamish sank into his father's hold, a fist clutching at his coat as he sobbed into his shoulder.

"Are you injured, Hamish? Hamish! Listen to me! Are you hurt?" Sherlock frantically looked over the boy, pulling at his arms and legs and running his hands over his face and through his hair, assessing the seriousness of his injuries.

John was rubbing a calming hand on the toddler's back and trying to get Sherlock to relax. "Sherlock, don't panic, it's alright. He's fine. He didn't fall very hard at all. Will you take a few breaths for me?"

Hamish continued crying but Sherlock calmed down. The little boy had a lump forming on his forehead and a small cut ran across it where his skin had broken under the impact. He'd also split his lip, from which blood was dripping down his chin.

"You're alright, Hamish, it's alright." Sherlock pulled him close, ignoring the blood and tears being smeared onto his coat.

"I'll just get a tissue for all that blood, Hame." John rummaged around in the backpack while Sherlock rocked little Hamish, who was starting to settle. "Let's have a look at you," John carefully dabbed up the blood and found that neither injury was particularly bad. He supposed the boy had never hurt himself before. "It looks like you might need a plaster."

Hamish's crying had been reduced to little hiccups every now and then but he still hadn't let go of Sherlock's coat. John dug around in the bag again, reappearing with a box of plasters. Luckily, he'd accidentally bought coloured ones the last time he'd had to refill the first-aid kit. "What colour would you like, Hame?"

He showed him the box and Hamish pointed to the one he wanted.

"That's blue," Sherlock told him.

John gently wiped his forehead with an antiseptic wipe, causing Hamish to wince and squirm a little, but not cry, and placed the plaster over the cut.

"There. It's all better now."

"Would you like to try the stairs again? I can help you." Sherlock carefully smoothed the toddler's curls back off of his forehead.

"No!"

"Alright. How about the slide?"

"No!" and he pointed in the direction they'd come.

"You want to go home?"

"Mhmm."

"I want you to go on one more thing, and then we can go home if you like."

Hamish sat in thought for a moment, before pointing decidedly at the swings, apparently deeming them safe enough for himself.

After ten minutes on the swings, he wanted to go on the slide again, and after five more minutes of that, he was back to climbing.

"Dah!" He was sitting at the top of the stairs, a finger in his mouth, his brow furrowed in thought.

"You need to go backwards, Hamish. Turn around and go backwards."

Another minute in thoughtful silence and Hamish slowly turned, inching backwards until his feet met the next step. He panicked.

"Dah!"

"It's alright, Hamish, you'll be fine. I'll catch you if you fall."

He carefully made his way down the other three steps, before he finally sat in the sawdust, grinning.

Sherlock didn't need prompting to praise the boy this time. "Well done, Hamish." He scooped him up and placed a kiss on top of his curls. "He smells," he observed, wrinkling his nose and looking at the boy. "Do you need me to change you?"

"Mhmm."

"There should be a change table in those toilets."

There wasn't. Not in the men's' anyway. There was a sign, indicating one in the women's' but even Sherlock agreed that they couldn't go in there.

"This is ridiculous," John complained as they left the bathrooms. "We wouldn't be the only men who bring little kids, surely. He's going to stink the whole way home."

"This happens all the time," a women taking a hoard of children into the women's' looked sympathetically at them. "Would he let me change him?"

"Oh, we wouldn't ask you to do that. We're only at Baker Street, he'll be okay."

"But were you planning on taking him home yet?"

"Not exactly, but..."

"Really, it's fine. Will he come with me?"

Sherlock looked dubious. "Hamish? Will you go with this nice lady? She's going to change your nappy."

"No. Dah."

"It's alright; John and I will wait just here. We can't take you in there, Hamish, that's all. It's only for ladies and little boys and that's where the change table is. We'll be just here. Otherwise we'll have to go home right now. Will you go?"

"Mhmm." He nodded.

"Good man." Sherlock passed a slightly uneasy-looking Hamish over to the woman while John handed her the bag with the changing supplies.

Sometime later, the woman, her four children and a giggling Hamish reemerged.

"Thank you so much. I can't tell you how much we appreciate it," John said as he took Hamish from her.

"Kah," Hamish said, pointing to the woman.

"Yes, I'm Kate."

Sherlock shook her hand. "Sherlock Holmes. I am Hamish's father."

"John Watson," said John, shaking her hand. "I'm their flat mate."

"It's a pleasure. He's very talkative, how old is he?"

"Nearly sixteen months."

"You're kidding. His language is incredible. Oh sorry, let me introduce this lot before they run off again. This is Harry, he's seven, Tyler is five, Ella is four, and little Oliver is two and a half."

"It's lovely to meet you all." John smiled and Sherlock nodded.

"John?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Ca-calean."

"Yes, you're all clean now. Did you say thank you to Kate?"

"Ta, Kah."

"You're welcome, darling. Anyway, I'll let you boys go; it was lovely to meet you. I might see you around here again sometime."

"I hope so. Thanks again."

"She's doing well," said Sherlock when Kate was barely out of earshot.

"Sorry?"

"For a single mother with that many children. She's doing very well."

"Single?"

"Yes, her husband left with her best friend, they're in Marseille, no, Cannes."

"How did you..."

"You can tell from the bow in the daughter's hair."

"Yeah, of course you can."

"John? Eat?"

"Are you hungry?"

"Mhmm."

They sat on the ground underneath a tree and John pulled out the food he'd brought. Biscuits from Mrs. Hudson, a sliced apple for Hamish and a whole one for John, a bottle of water for John and a kiddie cup with water in it for Hamish.

John handed a piece of apple to Hamish who crawled into his lap, snuggling against him while he ate.

Sherlock ate a slice of Hamish's apple and half of a biscuit, probably the first snack he'd had in a number of years.

A squirrel had begun to climb down the trunk of a tree near them and Hamish was watching it with fascination, the biscuit in his hand sat forgotten as he examined the little animal.

"That's a squirrel, Hamish," said John, following the boy's gaze.

"Ah do?" He looked briefly up at John as he asked his question, before quickly returning his attention to the creature on the tree.

"What's he doing?"

"Mhmm."

"Maybe he's looking for some food, or maybe he's going to meet up with his friends, or maybe..."

"His friends? It's an animal, John."

"He's a baby, Sherlock."

The detective looked confused.

"It's... how you talk to little kids."

"It isn't how I talk to them."

"Clearly."

Hamish suddenly gave a frightened little shout and grabbed onto John, pressing himself against his chest. "John!"

"What's wrong?" The doctor glanced around them and found that the squirrel was much tamer than it should have been, and was now sitting next to him on the ground. "It's alright, Hamish, there's no need to be frightened. It's just the little squirrel, look."

John gently extricated the toddler from himself and sat him back on his lap, a hand securely around his waist.

"Say hello to the squirrel, Hamish, he just wants to be your friend."

"Ham?" He pointed to himself.

"Yes, he wants to be Hamish's friend."

"John, this is ridiculous." Sherlock folded his arms and frowned.

"Well do you want him to be scared of the stupid thing?"

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and the squirrel scurried away.

"Inish," Hamish announced, thrusting the soggy remains of his biscuit into John's hand.

"Oh, thanks. Let me wipe your hands, Hame, they're sticky."

"No!"

"Hamish, don't be silly."

The toddler pouted and held his hands out for John to clean.

"There, all clean."

"Play?"

"Have a little drink of water first and then you can go and play."

They stayed at the park for almost another hour before Hamish decided that he'd had enough and wanted to go home.

They walked back to Baker Street, John pushed the pram this time, and Mrs. Hudson met them at the door.

**A/N: Goodness me, I just wrote a super long author's note and then my internet crashed and I lost it :/ Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, it was quite a long one so I hope you didn't feel like it dragged on. Thanks again for all the amazing feedback I'm getting, it's great to hear from you guys. Also, if you have any prompts, ideas or suggestions for this story, I'd be happy to look at them and slot them in a little later on if I feel like they fit. As I'm sure you've noticed, this story is more a collection of little moments in the lives of the Baker Street boys and it's going to continue in that fashion so I hope you guys don't mind if Hamish doesn't get kidnapped by Moriarty any time soon :) Have a lovely rest of your week, chapter 9 will go up on Saturday :)**


	9. Work With Lestrade

**Chapter 9 – Work With Lestrade**

_They walked back to Baker Street, John pushed the pram this time, and Mrs. Hudson met them at the door._

"Inspector Lestrade's upstairs, dears, and he doesn't look very happy," she informed them while Sherlock battled with the pram buckles and Hamish 'helped' him.

"There's been another one, exactly the same. Two kids, shot in the forehead, father's body mutilated, family migrated from Russia last year, mother died of pneumonia two years ago." Lestrade had made himself at home, sitting in John's armchair with tea and a biscuit.

"Ubstred!" Hamish clapped excitedly, wriggling almost completely out of Sherlock's arms and, when placed on the floor, crawled at top speed until he reached Lestrade, who pulled him up to sit on his lap.

"Hello, Hamish."

"Park!"

"Did you go to the park?"

"Mhmm. Hurt," he said, pointing to his injuries.

"Oh dear, did you hurt yourself?"

"Mhmm."

"Is it better now?"

"Mhmm. John."

"Did John fix it?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock, can you come?"

"I can't take Hamish to a crime scene."

"We'll do it over the phone, Sherlock. I'll stay here with him and you can ring me if you need me," John said decidedly.

"Right. Hamish, I'm going to work with Lestrade. You're going to stay here with John, okay?"

"Ham come?"

"No, Hamish, you can't come, it isn't safe."

"Oh." He looked very disappointed, pouting at his father.

"It's okay, Hame, we'll have lots of fun here."

"No, Dah." He pushed himself off of Lestrade's lap and crawled over to Sherlock, sitting on the ground at his feet and holding his little arms in the air.

The detective pulled him up and held him as he said, "I'll be home later, Hamish. You stay here with John and I'll be back soon."

"Mhmm."

"Good man." He kissed the top of the toddler's head and passed him to John.

"Say goodbye to Daddy."

"Bah, Dah." Hamish stuck a thumb in his mouth and waved with his other hand. Sherlock dashed down the stairs, followed closely by Lestrade. Hamish's eyes widened and he stuck his bottom lip out. "Back?"

"Yes, Daddy's coming back. Just like when I went to work yesterday, do you remember?"

"Mhmm."

"Now, let's get you out of this coat, and you can take your shoes off if you like."

"Yes," said Hamish, already reaching down to remove them.

John sat him on the floor, lowering himself to the ground in front of the toddler, and undid his little coat, hanging it behind the door, before returning to help him with his shoes.

"You're not a fan of wearing shoes, are you?"

"No. Off."

"Yes yes, I'm taking them off."

"Ta."

"Excellent manners, Hamish, well done."

Hamish grinned at the praise and clapped when his shoes and socks were finally off.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Ah do?"

"What are we going to do?"

"Mhmm."

"Why don't we look at all these toys Uncle Mycroft got for you?"

"My?"

"Yep, they're all from Uncle Mycroft. That was nice of him, wasn't it?"

"Mhmm."

John grabbed one of the boxes, which he'd repacked following Sherlock's 'examination' of them, and sat back on the floor with it, tipping it on its side in front of the toddler, whose eyes widened in excitement.

Hamish picked up a little red ball with a bell in it, raising his arm above his head and, before John could do anything, threw it over the doctor and out of the flat. They both heard the bell tinkle as the ball hit the wall opposite the staircase before a surprised "Oh!" came from Mrs. Hudson downstairs.

"Uh-oh," said Hamish as he heard her footsteps coming towards the flat, his eyes taking on a look of mischievous glee.

"Is this yours, Hamish?" The woman stood in the doorway to their flat, red ball in hand, a wide smile across her face.

"Mhmm." He stuck a finger in his mouth and grinned, nodding.

Mrs. Hudson handed it back to him. "Careful you don't lose it, little one." She ran a gentle hand over his curls before bustling back downstairs.

"Ta!" Hamish shouted after her.

"No more big throws like that, Hame, we might break something. We just roll the ball when we're inside, okay?"

"Mhmm." Hamish gave him a disgruntled look; the same one Sherlock gave him whenever John imposed a new flat rule like 'Please let me know if you're doing an experiment in the bathtub which involves acid,' or, 'Keep all experiments and body parts on the science shelf in the fridge and please don't put them anywhere near any dairy products'.

The little boy crawled into the middle of the toy pile and systematically examined each toy. Some of them: puzzles, shape-sorters, a toy xylophone, an anatomically correct skeleton (which could be dismantled and put back together and was of questionable age appropriateness), were put in a pile to Hamish's right. Others: balls, toy animals, accessories for the toy kitchen (which John hadn't even noticed was in their living room until that morning, due to the chaos which had engulfed the entire flat), and toy cars, trucks, planes and buses, were placed in a pile to Hamish's left. Others still were only briefly considered by the boy, before being thrown over his shoulder with a frown.

Hamish gave himself a little round of applause when he'd finished and John raised his eyebrows in question.

It, not for the first time, looked for a moment as if Hamish would roll his eyes. Instead, he pointed to the pile to his right, with the puzzles, and said "Dah." Then he pointed to the other pile and said "John," before turning to point at the toys scattered across the living room behind him and saying, "No".

John grinned. "So these ones are for me and you to play with?" he asked, pointing to the 'John' pile.

"Mhmm."

"Excellent." He pulled a play mat out of one of the other boxes and unrolled it onto the floor. It had a town printed on it with roads, a fire station, a school, an airport, a hospital, a train station and a great many other establishments. He then pulled out a wooden petrol station and placed it on one side of the mat and rummaged through the boxes until he found the wooden train tracks, which he also tipped out onto the floor.

It was two of the most enjoyable hours of John's life, sitting on the floor with his… flat mate… building extremely elaborate train tracks (which Hamish was very impressed with), and racing cars around the flat with the toddler

He almost forgot that he had to feed the boy and let him have a jam sandwich on the condition that he ate a whole banana as well. John then changed him and put him to bed, the first time he had ever done so, quietly pulling the bedroom door closed and returning to the living room.

The mess he and Hamish had made was far worse than any he'd ever seen Sherlock make. He moved to tidy up a little when he heard his phone buzzing somewhere in the rubble.

He finally found it; Hamish had put it in the toy microwave. Four missed calls. "Sherlock?"

"God, John, I've being trying to call you for hours."

"Hours?" He raised an eyebrow in disbelief, the first call had only been made ten minutes ago.

"Yes, hours. Is Hamish alright?"

"He's fine, Sherlock, I've just put him down for his nap. How's it going there?"

"Yes, fine, but I need a second opinion," and he launched into a very fast and very detailed description of everything he knew so far, and his current theories. Sherlock did not, in fact, need a second opinion; he apparently simply needed somebody to prattle on to.

"Alright, well we're fine here, so take your time."

* * *

John was disturbed from his blogging by a "Dah!" two hours later.

"Hey, Hamish." He smiled brightly as he opened the bedroom door and the toddler's brow furrowed in confusion.

"John?"

"Yes, Hame. Daddy's at work, remember?"

"Oh. Back?"

"Yeah, he'll be back a bit later." He picked him up and moved to take him out of the room.

"No, John," and he pointed at his pants.

"You need changing?"

"Mhmm."

John was peed on as he was changing the nappy, something Hamish found highly amusing. He was still giggling when they started playing with the toy kitchen.

Hamish spent quite some time 'cooking' John's meal, which he wasn't allowed to look at. Every time he turned around to peek at what the boy was doing, he would be met with a pair of very small hands covering his eyes, and Hamish shouting, "No!"

Finally, he was handed an empty plate as Hamish looked at him expectantly.

"What's this called, Hamish? It looks delicious. Is it a cake?"

"Mhmm. Jam cake."

"Goodness me, a jam cake?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh, thank you, Hamish, I'm so lucky to live with such a wonderful chef. May I eat it?"

"Mhmm," he said, before he saw John reaching towards the 'cake' with his hands. "No! Ubk!"

"Sorry?"

"Ubk," he repeated, rummaging around on the floor until he returned with a toy fork, handing it to John.

"Oh, a fork."

"Mhmm. Ubk."

"Right, yes, we must be civilized, thank you, Hamish."

They spent the next hour 'cooking', and then John put Hamish in front of the TV so he could finish writing up his blog before he had to cook dinner for real.

Halfway through what felt like the eight thousandth consecutive episode of Peppa Pig, John felt a tug at his pant leg and looked down from the pasta to find Hamish sitting at his feet.

"John? Dah back?"

"Yes, Daddy's coming back, it's alright." Hamish didn't look convinced. "He might not be home until after you've gone to bed, Hame."

"Oh."

"How about you go and finish Peppa Pig, and then dinner will be ready, and after dinner we can call Daddy and you can talk to him, okay?"

"Yes."

So, Hamish finished watching Peppa Pig, thumb in mouth, his free hand clutching at his blanket. He then obediently sat in his high chair to eat dinner, a considerable amount of which actually ended up in his mouth, despite the fact that he, as usual, insisted upon feeding himself.

"John!" he said impatiently, hands held above his head so he would be let out of the highchair.

"Good boy, you ate everything."

"Mhmm. Dah?"

"Yeah, we can call Daddy now."

John had barely dialed the number when Sherlock answered. "Is something wrong?"

"No, we're fine. We've just had dinner and Hame wanted to talk to you." John passed the phone to the toddler who held it up to his ear and shouted into it.

"Dah?"

"Hello, Hamish. Did you have dinner?"

"Mhmm," and he launched into a very long and seemingly very complicated story, about what neither the doctor nor the detective were quite sure.

John could hear Sherlock on the other end saying things like, "Yes," and "Is that right?" and "That's very fascinating, Hamish."

"Bah, Dah!" he shouted once his story was finished, promptly handing the phone back to John and, for some reason, removing his shirt before sitting down to play with the cars scattered across the floor.

"We'll see you later then, Sherlock." He threw the phone on the sofa and turned to the toddler. "Bath time, Hamish."

"John in?"

"You want me to get in with you?"

"Mhmm."

"I think you can do it by yourself today, Hame."

"No."

"Well, I'm just going to run the bath, okay? I'll be back in a minute."

"Mhmm."

He was pouring the bubble bath in when Hamish appeared at his side. The little boy had helpfully pulled his pants off as well. He pointed to his nappy and said, "John do."

"Yes, I'll do that in just a minute."

Hamish didn't show any signs of struggle until John lifted him to place him in the water.

"No! John! Dah! No!"

The doctor persisted, carefully lowering him into the water and, once he was there, retained his hold around the boy's waist.

Out came the bottom lip and it started to wobble. "It's okay, Hamish, I've got you."

His little chest heaved for a few seconds before he calmed down, relaxing into John's hold.

"Good boy."

"Boat?"

"You can get the boat. I'll let go of you, okay?"

"Mhmm."

* * *

When Sherlock returned to the flat, he was met with the sight of Doctor John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, holding a wet, squirming, and completely naked Hamish Holmes tightly around the waist. The flat itself looked quite frankly as if some sort of toy bomb had hit it and Sherlock held back a laugh.

"Dah!"

"Good evening. Did you enjoy yourselves?" he said with a smirk.

"I made the mistake of trying to dress him on the floor. He escaped." John frowned.

"How was your bath, Hamish?"

"Ham." He pointed to himself and Sherlock looked confused.

"Hamish had his bath by himself today, didn't you, Hame?"

"Did you really?"

"Mhmm."

"Good boy. Well done. Where are your pajamas?"

"Off," he happily informed him.

"Okay, Hame, let's get you dried off and dressed while Daddy has some dinner and then he can read you a story before bed."

* * *

"Have you solved it?"

John sat at the table, a glass of wine in his hand, having just recounted the evening while Sherlock further updated his son's file.

"Almost. Forty-two words!"

"Sorry?"

"Hamish. He has forty-two words that we know of. They only had six listed in his file when we got him. That's thirty-six words in the last three days. Twenty-one which he can say perfectly and are real words, seventeen he needs to work on and four that he can say perfectly but aren't really words."

"What could he say before?"

"No, Mhmm, Stay, Come, Bed and Eat."

"Not play?"

"It isn't listed."

"God, that poor little kid. His head's bruised up pretty badly. I can't imagine your brother being too happy about that."

"He already called me about it. It's fine. Hamish needs to be hurting himself. I'm not having a weak child. Was the bath a struggle?"

"He was okay. I held onto him for a minute or so after I put him in and then he was fine. He didn't cry."

"Good. I won't have him crying unnecessarily. I was never taught the perils of crying." He spat out that last word and returned to his typing.

"Perils?"

"Detrimental to social development and early relationships."

"What do you…"

"The murderer is somebody who both of these families knew or trusted, someone they were expecting. There were no signs of struggle or distress and they were killed in the middle of the day. A tradesman perhaps. Also, we need to start working on his walking; I'm not having him be behind."

"Yeah, that's fine, but… what were you saying about…"

"It's unimportant."

"Are you sure? I'm happy to talk about it if you're…"

"No, it's fine." The detective waved a dismissive hand in the direction of his flat mate and returned to the laptop.

**A/N: Hope you guys weren't too disappointed that Hame didn't end up going to the Yard. He will later, I promise, and I just rewrote and extended the chapter where he does for the lovely guest that left a review saying they were excited about it :) Chapter 10 will be up on Monday and unfortunately the Baker Street boys won't be having very much fun. Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you think :) Have a great weekend!**


	10. Sick

**Chapter 10 - Sick**

Sherlock was woken at 3am, not by a "Dah!" but by the cries of his son.

"Hamish? Are you alright?" He shot out of bed and pulled his son's small and very warm body to his chest.

Hamish simply continued crying as Sherlock examined him. High fever, possibilities: sore throat, headache, earache, stomach pains. Further data required.

"It's alright, Hamish, everything's alright, I'm here now. I need you to tell me what's wrong." He held the toddler's feverish head to his shoulder as he swayed gently on the spot, hoping to calm him down.

Once Hamish's cries had been reduced to hiccups and sniffles, Sherlock carried him to the bathroom, sitting him on the counter. "Is it hurting, Hamish?"

"Mhmm."

"Where is it hurting? Your head?"

Hamish gave a little nod.

"Does your throat hurt? Does it hurt here?" He placed a gentle finger on the boy's throat and Hamish nodded again. "Anywhere else? Your stomach?"

The toddler looked confused.

"Your tummy, Hamish." John stood in the doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"No."

"What about your ears? Can I have a look at him, Sherlock?"

The detective stepped aside, and John pulled his medical kit out from the little cupboard beneath the sink.

"Yes," the little boy said, pulling at his ear with one hand.

"I knew he'd get sick," John said as he tried to put the thermometer near Hamish's ear.

"No, John. No!" Hamish pushed his hands away with his own tiny and, now that John looked at them, trembling, hands.

"It's alright, Hame, it won't hurt you. It's very quick."

"No!"

"Alright, shhh, it's okay. We can use this one; it goes under your arm."

"Mhmm."

"He's shaking, Sherlock, the fever's really high. We might have to take him to the hospital. Can you run a cool bath for him?"

Hamish suddenly started crying again and John pulled him into his arms, careful not to dislodge the thermometer.

"Shhh, Hamish, it's okay. You're going to have a bath to make you feel better."

The thermometer beeped and John laid Hamish on the change table, pulling off his little jumpsuit and swearing under his breath when he read the temperature.

"It's 104. We'll put him in the bath and give him some panadol and if it doesn't go down in the next hour we'll have to take him to the A&E. You want to go in the bath by yourself, Hame?"

"Mhmm."

"Good man."

He let out a little whimper of protest when he was placed in the bath, the water feeling freezing on his hot skin.

"It's alright, Hamish." John ran a wet washer over the boy's hair and face while Sherlock measured the panadol out into a syringe. "Thanks, Sherlock. Hame, I need you to take this medicine for me, it will make it stop hurting, okay? I'm going to put this in your mouth and you need to drink it all."

"Mhmm."

He coughed when the first little squirt entered his mouth, crying when this hurt his throat.

"Oh, Hamish, I'm sorry it's hurting, little man. Can you try again for me?"

"No. Dah."

Sherlock's voice was the gentlest John had ever heard it. "It's alright, Hamish, I'm just here. You need to listen to John because he's a doctor. He knows what to do. He can make you feel better." The detective knelt down next to the bath and placed a calming hand on the back of his son's neck.

"Try again, bud." John cupped his little cheek in one hand while he held the syringe to his mouth with the other.

After sitting in thought for a moment, Hamish opened his mouth, leaning into the warm hand on his cheek, and dutifully swallowed the medicine.

"Good boy. Well done."

"Hurt." His eyes filled with tears again.

"Did it hurt you?"

"Mhmm."

"I promise it will make you feel better soon, Hame."

"Out." Hamish tried to pull himself up, only to be gently pushed back by John.

Sherlock ran a hand over the boy's curls. "Hamish, you just need to stay in for another little minute, alright?"

"No. Out."

"Just one more minute, Hamish. Do you want your boat?"

"Mhmm."

They managed to stretch him out for another few minutes and then John pulled his shivering little body close, wrapping him in a towel. The toddler suddenly looked rather delirious, staring vaguely at the wall, his head resting on the doctor's shoulder.

"Alright, Hame?"

"Mhmm."

"Does he feel cooler?" Sherlock hovered in front of them, worry etched across his face.

"A little. Hamish I'm going to take your temperature again, okay?"

He simply nodded, placing his full weight in John's arms.

"103.2. It's gone down a little bit. I need you to have a drink of water, alright, Hame?"

"No, hurt."

"It will hurt your throat a little bit but it will stop your head from hurting," John explained as he put a nappy on the toddler.

"Dah." John had never seen a child look so miserable. Hamish's blue eyes were red and puffy from crying, his cheeks were flushed but beneath this, his skin was a sickly white.

"Here you go, Hame," he said as he passed him to Sherlock. "Now come on and we'll get you a drink."

As John was pouring cold water into a kiddie cup, he heard a small cough, followed by an, "Oh, Hamish," from his flat mate. When Sherlock entered the kitchen, toddler still in his arms, he had vomit smeared across the front of his t-shirt.

"Soh, Dah."

"No, Hamish, it's alright, there's no need to apologize. I can just change my shirt, it's not a problem."

"Hurt."

"Did it hurt your throat?" Sherlock asked as he ran his fingers through the boy's hair.

"Mhmm," he nodded and pointed to his head.

"It hurt your head as well?"

"Mhmm."

John handed Hamish the cup, which he slowly brought to his lips, cautiously drinking the water. "Can you bring him into the clinic in the morning, Sherlock? I'm working from 8 until 2 so you can just bring him to see me. I think he's definitely got tonsillitis and it's difficult to tell if his ear's infected as well or if it's just referred pain from his throat. I'll need to look at him properly at the surgery. Do you want something to eat, Hamish?"

"No. Bed."

"Yeah, that's a good idea."

Hamish slept on Sherlock's chest for the remainder of the night, the detective checking his temperature every half hour. They left early to get into the surgery before it opened.

"Jesus. Double ear infection and tonsillitis. No wonder you feel so bad, little man. We'll pump him with antibiotics but he's going to be really sick like this for at least a few days."

The toddler was sat on his father's lap, leaning heavily against his chest.

There was a small knock at the door and Sarah poked her head around the side. "Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Not at all. Come and meet Hamish. He's quite sick today, unfortunately." John smiled at the little boy, who was pulling on his ear with one hand, trying to stop it from hurting.

"Hey, Sherlock. Hello, Hamish. I'm Sarah. Oh, look, he's beautiful, Sherlock."

"Dah," said Hamish, pointing to the detective.

"Is this your Daddy?"

"Mhmm."

"What's wrong with him?" She looked between John and Sherlock.

"Hurt," Hamish answered her.

"What's hurting you, darling?"

He pointed to the various affected areas with a frown.

"Double ear infection and tonsillitis," John explained.

"Oh, you poor little thing, you must feel awful. John, we'll be okay without you today. Sick kids are a two person job. Take the rest of the week off, and ring me if you need more time."

"You sure?"

"We'll be fine."

"Thanks, Sarah. He had a really high fever in the night and I just…"

"It's fine, John, go home. I hope you feel better soon, Hamish."

"Bah."

* * *

By the time they got back to Baker Street, Hamish was so exhausted that he couldn't even cry anymore. He would simply loll around in whoever's arms were holding him at the time.

John was currently cradling him in the crook of his elbow, as if he were a very small baby, while Hamish lay in a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep. The doctor swayed from side to side, the gentle movement placating the little boy while Sherlock paced.

Hamish would occasionally whimper out a random "John," or "Dah," but other than that the flat was silent.

"Why can't you fix it, John? You're supposed to be a doctor," Sherlock suddenly hissed at him, turning around from where he had stopped by the window.

"Sherlock, I'm doing everything I can. I'm sorry that I can't fix this straight away, I hate seeing him like this. But I've put him on antibiotics and we're just going to have to wait this one out."

"But look at him."

"I know."

"What is the matter with my nephew?" If John didn't know better he would have said that Mycroft looked… concerned.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock sneered, glaring at his brother.

"He has an ear infection in both ears, and tonsillitis," John explained, running a gentle finger along the boy's nose, trying to get him to sleep.

"Oh dear."

"He's never been exposed to germs before, Mycroft. That's why he's so sick. His immune system is useless. We're actually lucky he's not worse." The doctor frowned, sighed, and returned to comforting the little boy to sleep.

"I am sorry to hear that."

"My?" Hamish's croaky little voice piped up. He had reached a moment of almost-lucidity and recognized his uncle's voice.

"Hello, Hamish."

"Would you like to go to Mycroft for a little minute, Hame?"

"Mhmm."

Mycroft carefully held the toddler against his chest; a comforting hand ran over his curls as he sank into the tall man's arms. Hamish wrapped a small hand around Mycroft's lapel and the elder Holmes carefully sat on the sofa.

"I'm going to get you a little drink, Hamish."

"He has a fever," Mycroft announced.

"That's nothing. It's only just over 100 now. It was 104 in the night; we almost took him to the A&E." John stirred some honey into a kiddie cup of warm water. "Here you go, Hame. Drink some of this for me, okay? It will make you feel better. And you can have some ice cream afterwards if you want."

Hamish was dubious. Every other thing John had claimed would make him feel better had simply made him even less comfortable. The bath had made him feel colder than he already did, and that horrid medicine he kept giving him hurt his throat.

The first gulp of this did hurt him, but, always determined, he persisted. After the initial sip, a protective film formed around his throat, finally soothing it.

He hummed and smiled gratefully at John, resting his head against his uncle's chest. "Ta, John," he whispered, before falling asleep, cup still in his little hand.

"Finally," Sherlock sighed.

"We've been trying to get him to sleep for hours. He's just so uncomfortable that he can't relax."

"I'll put him to bed," said Sherlock, carefully pulling his son's limp body from Mycroft's hold and carrying him into the bedroom.

* * *

Hamish slept for almost four hours with Sherlock obsessively checking his temperature every fifteen minutes. The detective's pacing was driving John a little bit mad but at least he wasn't complaining that he was bored.

The little boy woke up crying and threw up all over John when he was pulled from the cot, only causing him to cry harder.

"Oh, Hamish. It's alright. Settle down."

"Dah," he sobbed, clutching at John's shirt.

"Shhh. It's okay, little man," John rocked him back and forth as he carried him to the living room, passing him to Sherlock and disappearing upstairs to change his clothes. "This is awful," he said on his return.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room, Hamish once again cradled as if he were a baby, trying to stop his crying. "This is the worst day of my life," the detective said solemnly as he brushed the stray curls off of his sons' forehead.

"I just wish I could do something for him. It was good of Mycroft to come. Hamish was glad to see him."

"Yes. I'm not sure what we can do about that."

"Sherlock, there's nothing wrong with… never mind. It's time for some more panadol."

"His head's healing up nicely."

"Yeah," gently John pried the little boy's mouth open and slipped the syringe in. He was now only half-conscious so it was much easier to administer the medicine. "Hamish, I need you to drink this medicine, okay?"

"No." He tried to push the syringe from his mouth, but John pressed on.

"Shhh, Hamish, it's alright. John's helping you."

"Do you want some ice cream after this, Hame?"

"Mhmm."

"Good man."

He swallowed the medicine, pulling a disgusted face at the doctor, which Sherlock laughed at, before sinking back into his father's arms.

"How about we watch some TV while John gets your ice cream?"

So they sat and watched Thomas the Tank Engine, Hamish spilled chocolate ice cream in Sherlock's lap, then he cried and apologized before forcing Sherlock to change his trousers with a series of insistent, 'Dah!'s.

Mrs. Hudson brought them up a casserole for dinner and held Hamish while John practically force-fed his flat mate who hadn't eaten anything since the day before.

"Would you like a bath, Hamish?" He'd started crying halfway through their dinner and Sherlock had jumped at the opportunity to not eat anything else.

"Mhmm."

"You would?"

"Mhmm. Ham."

"Yes, just with Hamish."

His fever had settled so John ran a warm bath for him, hoping it would soothe him enough that he would sleep. By the time Sherlock pulled his little body from the water; Hamish was so drowsy he could barely hold his head up.

"Hopefully he'll be able to just sleep tonight. Tomorrow will be better, Sherlock."

**A/N: Poor Hamish :( Once again, thanks for all of the wonderful feedback. I'm so glad to hear from you all. I spent all week being indecisive about a fairly vital plot point and which way I was going to go with it and a review helped me make my decision so I definitely do listen to you guys :) Hope you liked this chapter. Chapter 11 will go up on Thursday. Have a great week!**


	11. Walking

**Chapter 11 – Walking**

Hamish lived off pureed fruit, ice cream, and warm water with honey for almost two weeks. By the end of the first week, he had regained a fair amount of his energy. He was back to crawling, feeding himself, pulling his socks off, and arguing with them about having to wear clothes; but was still too sick and sore to eat anything that wasn't virtually liquid, and his usual happy demeanor had simply vanished.

The toddler was also getting closer and closer to being able to walk. He had become incredibly good at standing up, and if he was within reach of a piece of furniture or some other fixture to hold onto, he far preferred toddling around said piece of furniture than crawling.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" John suddenly shouted one afternoon. Hamish had almost fully recovered and Sherlock was back on a case, having taken the last two weeks off to take care of him.

The detective was sat at the kitchen table, much to John's disdain ("You cannot conduct experiments on the table we eat off!"), peering into a microscope. He looked up at his flat mate in irritation. "What?" John was supposed to be watching Hamish so he could work undisturbed.

"I think he's going to walk."

That got his attention. Sherlock flew out of his chair and across the room to where Hamish was standing one step away from the sofa, which he had let go of.

"Are you going to walk, Hamish?" He knelt down a few feet in front of his son, who looked warily at him.

"Mhmm," he finally said, swaying on his feet a little.

"Wait! Let me get the camera." John dashed into the kitchen and returned with the video camera he'd bought the week before. "Okay, go!"

As Hamish moved to take his first step, he leant back slightly too far and fell backwards, resulting in a frustrated frown.

"It's alright, Hame, try again. You walk over to Daddy."

With a determined glint in his eye, Hamish pulled himself up again, bit his lip in concentration, and took a little step. Once he'd done this, the little boy was filled with confidence and took three more hurried steps over to where Sherlock was sitting.

He opened his arms as Hamish approached, and scooped him up when he reached him.

"Well done, Hamish!" John cheered.

"John look?" 'Look' was his newest word, and he enjoyed using it so much that he often chose it above the correct word. Just that morning, he had called his toast 'look'.

"Yes, I saw you, Hame. That was amazing."

"Dah?"

"Yes, I saw as well. Why don't you walk over to John now?"

"Mhmm."

John was a little further away than his father had been, so Hamish fell over twice on his way across the room.

"Good boy, Hamish." John bundled him up into his arms and held tightly onto him, before tickling him until his laughter reached the point of absolute hysteria.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

"My! Look!" Hamish slowly stood and toddled across to the doorway where his uncle was standing.

"Well done, Hamish." Mycroft picked him up and cuddled the toddler against his chest. "How long has he been walking for?"

"About two minutes." John smiled.

"Pat!" Hamish shouted, wriggling until Mycroft put him down. Postman Pat was his favourite television show and it could not be missed. Nobody in 221B or probably the entirety of Baker Street had ever seen a temper-tantrum of the magnitude of that which they had witnessed two days prior when they arrived home from the park a little later than planned and missed Postman Pat.

"Yes, it's time for Pat now."

Hamish clapped and crawled over to the sofa, pulling himself up to sit in his spot, and sticking his thumb in his mouth.

"My?" He looked expectantly up at his uncle.

"Ah… I… I have to go."

"Oh." Hamish pouted and his eyes filled with water.

"I suppose I can watch a little with you." This earned him a round of applause and a huge grin, and when he sat down, Hamish crawled into his lap to sit with him.

And so, the British Government watched the entirety of Postman Pat, followed by Fireman Sam and Shawn the Sheep, before he took his leave.

"Sure you don't want to stay for dinner, Mycroft? We're getting pizza." This earned John a glare from his flat mate.

"Thank you, John, but I really must be going. Goodbye, Hamish."

"Bah, My!"

"Doctor Watson. Little brother." They were given a nod. He was given a glare and a dismissive wave by his brother.

"See you, Mycroft." John ignored the detective's childish behaviour and instead tried to deduce what suddenly had Hamish so excited.

The little boy's eyes had widened, he was kicking his little feet and his hands were clenched into fists, an enormous grin adorning his face.

"What is it, Hame?"

"More Pat!"

"That's wonderful, Hamish." Sure enough, when John checked, the boy had been blessed with a Postman Pat marathon that went for the next hour. "There's lots of Pat on today. When it's finished, we're going to turn the TV off, okay?"

"Pat?"

"You can watch Pat until he's finished, and then I'll turn it off."

"Mhmm. Dah Pat?"

"Daddy's working right now, Hamish. I can watch it with you if you'd like."

"Yes. John." He patted the space next to him with a tiny hand and John sat, pulling him into his lap.

* * *

"Look! Hat!" Hamish exclaimed halfway through dinner. Sherlock and John looked up to find the toddler with a piece of his pizza on his head. "Hat!" he repeated.

"That's a funny hat." John laughed and started filming again.

"John why must you film every single thing the boy does?" Sherlock asked in irritation.

"It's what you do, Sherlock. It's nice to watch them back. It's the same as taking photos."

"It isn't what I do."

"It'll be good for his file."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and returned to his work.

"Dah hat?"

"Daddy might be able to make a hat out of his dinner if he was eating any." John frowned at the detective who was still staring down the microscope and had refused to move when his flat mates had started eating.

"I'm. Not. Hungry. And I'm busy."

"Ah do, Dah?"

"What am I doing?"

"Mhmm."

"I'm solving a case for Lestrade and his incompetent police force."

"Ubstred?"

"Yes, Hame. Daddy works with Lestrade."

"Ah do now?"

"Now is a new word," Sherlock noted. "Right now, Hamish, I'm examining a sample I collected off of a glove that the murderer 'stupidly' left at the crime scene. Normally I would do this at the lab but I couldn't be bothered going out this morning. It's very interesting, actually. It appears that the murderer only arrived in London this past weekend. He lives in the Lakes District, you see, which means he'd been planning this murder for quite some time. However, the victim was from the same area, so why did he wait until this particular weekend? He's lived near her for the last eight years, why did he wait for so long? And why the honey? All of that would be important if it was, in fact, the man who this glove belongs to that murdered the poor woman but he didn't kill her. It was her son. I'm more interested in why he's trying to frame the village pastor."

"Oh," said Hamish. "Na!"

'Na' was as close as he could get to saying Mrs. Hudson's actual name, so that is what he insisted upon calling her. Sure enough, there she stood, in the doorway to the flat, something small and knitted in her hands.

"Sorry, boys, I don't want to interrupt your dinner. I just finished this jumper for Hamish."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson. Would you like something to eat?"

"Oh no, thank you, love. I just wanted to drop this off before I went out tonight."

"Oh, it's lovely. Look what Mrs. Hudson made for you, Hamish." The doctor unfolded the tiny knitted jumper and held it up for the toddler to see. It was an exact copy of John's favourite cream cable-knit jumper and Hamish clapped his hands.

"John!"

"Yes, it's just like mine, isn't it? What do you say to Mrs. Hudson, Hamish?"

"Ta, Na."

"You're welcome, darling. Well, I'd best be off then."

"Who is it this time, Mrs. Hudson?" the detective asked, still not looking up from the notes he was making.

"Sherlock, don't…" John began.

"It's alright, John. Sherlock, it's that lovely Mr. Walbury from 225A. I'll be very impressed if you can find a bad thing to say about him."

Sherlock took a breath, thought for a moment and said, "Actually, not a thing. Have a lovely evening, Mrs. Hudson."

"Right, well thank you."

"Thank you for Hamish's jumper." He smiled cordially and returned to the microscope.

"On?" Hamish shouted as soon as Mrs. Hudson had closed the door.

"You can put it on when you finish your dinner, I don't want it getting dirty after you've only worn it for one second."

"Mhmm."

They had never seen the toddler eat so quickly. He wolfed down the entire piece of pizza in less than a minute where it would normally have taken him close to half an hour, what with his examining it from every angle and picking at every single thing on it until his curiosity was sated.

"Inish. Up!" he said, holding his hands above his head.

"That was quick, Hame," John said as he wiped Hamish down and pulled him from the highchair.

"Mhmm. On?" He pointed to the jumper.

"Yeah, alright, hold on a minute."

He took off the little hoodie Hamish was already wearing and replaced it with his new jumper. He grinned.

"Dah! Look!"

"Yes, that's wonderful, Hamish." The detective didn't even bother to look up from his work and waved a hand in his sons' direction. Hamish looked dreadfully disappointed and leant into John's hold.

"Sherlock!"

"What?" His head snapped up and he glared at John.

"You didn't even look at him."

"I'm busy," he snapped, returning to his notes.

The toddler's eyes filled with tears but they didn't fall, and John quickly carried him into the living room to distract him. He knew this wasn't going to be the last time Sherlock disappointed his son.

**A/N: Hope everybody's having a lovely week. I'll upload again on Saturday to kick off the weekend. Please feel free to leave a review and tell me what you think and don't forget to let me know if you have any ideas or suggestions :)**


	12. Boring

**Chapter 12 – Boring**

"Sherlock, can I talk to you?"

"What is it? I'm very busy, John."

"Yeah, I've noticed. You've been ignoring Hamish all day and it's bothering him."

"It isn't bothering him, he hasn't even noticed. Where is he, anyway?"

John gave a world-weary sigh and glared at his flat mate. "He has noticed, Sherlock. He's in bed. It's almost nine o'clock. I gave him his bath and got him ready for bed. I read him a story and stayed in there until he fell asleep because he was crying for you. You don't understand how much you mean to him. He'd never had a relationship before he came here. Didn't you read his file? The only people he saw regularly were your brother, who didn't speak to him, and that Doctor Turnbull. They rotated the nurses and nannies every four days so that he wouldn't get attached to them. For the last three weeks, he's been forming a relationship with you and now you've turned around and left him, just like everybody else."

"I haven't left him, I've been here all day."

"You've barely acknowledged his existence since this morning."

"I was working."

"So go to work!" John shouted. "Don't stay here and work, it confuses him. If you go out to work, he understands that. He understands that it's something we have to do and that we'll be back later. If you're sitting up at this bloody kitchen table all day, he thinks you're just ignoring him."

"He was being boring," said the detective, returning to the laptop.

"He learned to walk today, Sherlock!"

"And I stopped working to watch him."

"You wouldn't have even bloody noticed if I hadn't told you. Did you think this wasn't going to change anything?"

"Why should it?"

"You have a son now, a child. I love him to bits but he isn't my kid and he knows that. He needs _you_, Sherlock."

"What do you expect me to do? Give up The Work?"

"Of course not, but you need to set some boundaries."

Sherlock sighed and slammed the laptop shut. "John, this is ridiculous. Boundaries?"

"Yes. On the days where you're working you actually need to go to work. But not all day. You need to be home before Hamish goes to bed. And if you have to work from here you need to set some time limits. Or take breaks and actually spend time with him or you're going to hurt him. Surely you could have spared half an hour this afternoon to watch Postman Pat with him."

"Postman Pat?" he spat, looking at the doctor as if it was the most idiotic thing he'd ever heard. "I don't watch children's television shows, John."

"Well something. You could have given him his bath, or played with his trains for ten minutes, or read him his story. You can't leave all of this to me, Sherlock. It has nothing to do with me. He is not my son, he's yours, and he's your responsibility."

"It isn't my fault he's gotten dull, John."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, he's your… What is wrong with you? He's your baby."

"He's dull. It's all the same. He gets up and he has breakfast and plays and has lunch and has his nap and watches television and plays some more and has dinner and a bath and then he goes to bed and it's just the same thing the next day."

"Sherlock… I don't even… I don't know what to say to you. I knew this would happen. I knew he'd be a novelty for a little while and then you'd get bored and I'd get dumped with him. If this is how it's going to be, I don't think it's a good idea for him to stay here. We should adopt him off to somebody, because I'm not having him grow up thinking his father doesn't love him."

"I do… care for him. I'm very fond of him."

"So show it to him, Sherlock. Will you think about this properly please? Because it's really important for him. I want your decision by tomorrow."

"My decision about what?"

"About keeping him."

"You can have it now. We are keeping him. I will try harder."

"Sherlock, are you going to…"

"John. Unlike you, I never really had parents. My brother and I were fobbed off onto nannies and Mycroft practically raised me himself. I do not know how this is supposed to work. Excuse me from having not lived up to your expectations today."

"Sherlock, I get that this is different for you. It's a big adjustment for everybody, just…" he sighed. "Try again tomorrow."

Sherlock made a noncommittal grunting sound and John sighed again.

"I'm only saying all of this because he loves you so much. And I can see how much you love him, whether you'll admit it or not. I just want to make sure you have a good relationship. I want to make sure he gets a better childhood than you. And he will. I know he will."

**A/N: Sorry, kids, it's a bit of a shorter chapter today. That's just how it worked out. I'm actually rewriting Chapter 13 at the moment because I've completely changed the direction I was going to go with it, so much so that I've had to rewrite the entire thing. But not to worry, I still plan on having it up on Tuesday. Thanks for all of the reviews, favourites, and follows, they are much appreciated. Hope you all have a great weekend :)**


	13. Effort

**Chapter 13 – Effort**

A month passed and the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street had somehow managed to settle into a fairly regular routine. Sherlock was putting in a surprising amount of effort with his son. Hamish's language had become astonishingly advanced and now, if he could be bothered (which he almost never could be), he was more than capable of putting together a full and grammatically correct sentence.

Just as they'd been warned, Hamish's newly learned walking skill had exponentially increased the trouble he gave them. Still averse to wearing clothes, it took both John and Sherlock, and sometimes Mrs. Hudson to dress the boy after his bath. If one was to visit 221B at around 6pm on any given night, it was probable that they would be met by a dripping wet, giggling, and completely nude Hamish running through the flat, being chased by some combination of his exasperated flat mates.

John had returned to his normal work schedule and Sherlock manipulated 'The Work' around when John would be home to mind Hamish. On particularly difficult cases, the toddler would stay with Mrs. Hudson as Sherlock insisted that John was 'essential for clear thinking'.

Following his and John's discussion about the toddler, Sherlock had launched into some sort of ridiculous and, in the doctor's opinion, over-regimented, bonding program with Hamish.

"Is this acceptable?" John was disrupted from his blogging by a sheet of paper being waved in front of his eyes.

"What is it?"

"It's our bonding regime."

"_Our_ bonding regime?" he raised an eyebrow.

"No, you idiot. Mine and Hamish's."

"Oh, right. Of course."

_Monday:_

_7-8am: Puzzles, shape-sorters, and stacking toys._

_8-8.30am: Breakfast_

_8.30-9am: Get dressed._

_9-10am: Books and music._

_10-11am: Lessons._

_11-11.30am: Morning Tea._

_11.30am-12.30pm: Reality play._

_12.30-1.30pm: Lessons._

_1.30-2pm: Lunch._

_2-4.30pm: Nap._

_4.30-5pm: Television (together)._

_5pm-6pm: Art and craft._

_6pm-8pm: Dinner, Bath, and Bed._

The other six days of the week had a similar routine laid out, although some involved walks and trips to the park.

"Oh, it's a routine for Hamish. That's probably a good idea, actually."

"No, it is not a routine for Hamish."

"Well… that's what it looks like, Sherlock. I don't know…"

"Of course you don't know. Sometimes I forget how ridiculously imperceptive you are. Obviously, I am to participate in all of these activities with him. You said that I need to spend more time with him."

"Oh, right. Yeah, well that would be great. Um… what do you mean by… 'Lessons'?"

"I mean exactly that, John."

"What… what will you be teaching him?" he asked, slightly alarmed.

"Shapes, colours, French, human anatomy, Latin, numbers, the alphabet, Morse Code, geography, Sign Language, basic mathematics, and I would also like to improve his speaking."

"What about astronomy?" John couldn't stop the smirk from spreading across his face.

Sherlock scowled. "That is very amusing, John."

* * *

"Hamish, where are your ears?"

John stood silently in the doorway to the flat, his work bag still clasped in his hand. His flat mates were sat in the middle of the living room, and appeared to be enjoying themselves a great deal. Little Hamish brought both hands up and took hold of his ears, his smile lighting up the entire flat.

"Excellent. And where are your toes?"

The doctor wasn't aware that this is what Sherlock had meant by 'human anatomy', he'd been expecting something a little less innocent, a little more… Sherlock.

Hamish looked confused and gave his father a little shrug. "Your toes, Hamish. Do you know where they are?"

"No, Dah."

Sherlock slowly reached over to the toddler's tiny feet and tapped his toes. "These are your toes, Hamish."

"Tickle, Dah?"

"Tickle?"

"Mhmm. Tickle toes."

"You want me to tickle your toes?"

"Yes."

"Well, I suppose that can be arranged." He again reached towards Hamish's toes and the toddler gave a preemptive giggle. John bit his lip against the enormous grin that was threatening to spread across his entire face. Finally, the world's only consulting detective launched himself at his son, first tickling his toes, then moving up his little body, focusing on all of his most ticklish areas. Toes, backs of knees, thighs, sides, and chin. Once Hamish's laughter was almost hysterical, he stopped and gathered the boy up in his arms, pulling him tightly against his chest.

"John!" Hamish shouted when he glanced at the doorway.

"Hello, Hamish. How was your day?"

"Oh, good afternoon, John. How… how much of that…"

"I only just got in," he lied. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "And besides, it was adorable." He smirked and started unpacking his bag onto the kitchen table. "I got you a present today, Hame."

"Hmm?"

"Come in here and I'll show you."

"Ah tresent, John?"

"A present is something that somebody gives to you."

"Okay."

"Here, it's in this bag. You can open it." John pulled a Hamley's bag out of his backpack and placed it on the floor in front of Hamish.

"Open?"

"Yeah, have a look inside."

"Bus!" he exclaimed as he looked in the bag, reaching his hands in and trying to take out the box. He made a little grunting sound and glared at the bag. "Heavy," he said. "Heavy, Dah!"

"We learned about light and heavy today," Sherlock explained. "That's excellent talking, Hamish. Now, do you need some help?"

"Mhmm. Bus, Dah!"

"Yes, I can see that." He pulled the box from the bag and opened it, removing from it a red, wooden, double-decker bus, complete with a number of little wooden people. "Did you say thank you to John?"

"Ta, John." He ran over to where the doctor was standing and quickly hugged his legs, before running back over to Sherlock. "Play bus now, Dah?"

"Yes, Hamish, here you go."

The little boy carefully placed each of the 25 little people in their appropriate spots on the bus, he and Sherlock then made seven bus stops out of various items Hamish found strewn across the flat. An upside down beaker, a Tupperware container John was fairly sure had once housed a human liver, an empty honey jar which Hamish had fished out of the bin, Sherlock's deerstalker, a toy dump truck turned on its side, Sherlock's mug which still had tea residue in the bottom, and a sideways saucepan.

Hamish then conducted a bus service around their flat. Dropping people off at their stops and picking other people up until it was time for dinner. He sat at the table (the high chair had been abandoned weeks before and replaced with a booster seat on a dining chair) and chatted with his flat mates, presumably about his day, all the while spilling food into his lap and onto the table and floor. He 'helped' John run his bath and had to have four stories before he went to bed (two from John and two from Sherlock).

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm?" he didn't look up from the science journal he was reading.

"That's the happiest I've ever seen him."

"Where is he?"

John rolled his eyes. He supposed it was good that Sherlock trusted him enough with Hamish to leave him completely under his care, so much so that he often lost track of where the boy was, although it was an occurrence a little too frequent for John's liking. "I just put him to bed."

"Oh. Thank you. He's happy, you think?"

"Yeah. He's definitely happy. You're doing something right."

* * *

Along with their 'bonding regime', the detective had begun a full-scale examination of his son, which included not only studying all psychological facets of the boy, but also involved in-depth inspection of his physiology. He had conducted a number of tests and investigations on Hamish's hair and skin cells, and had been waiting for weeks for the boy to hurt himself so he could take a blood sample.

"Sherlock, I don't understand why you need his blood as well, everything's in his file!"

"His file is hopeless. I need all of the information, John."

"Why don't you just prick his finger? It'd hardly hurt, he'd forget about it in a second."

"Are you mad? I'm not going to intentionally injure my son! What sort of doctor are you?"

A little shout and a series of crashes and thumps silenced their argument. The sound had come from the stairwell and was quickly followed by Hamish's crying.

They rushed to the door and looked down the stairs to find Hamish at the bottom, lying on his stomach, his body curled into a protective little ball.

"Jesus."

"Hamish!" Sherlock was at the bottom of the stairs picking his son up before John had even properly registered what had happened. "Hamish, look at me! Look at my face, Hamish!"

The little boy clung onto his father as if his life depended on it; while Sherlock tried to make sure he wasn't hurt too badly.

"Can I have a look at you, Hame?" John touched a careful hand to the back of the toddler's head.

"Mhmm."

Sherlock carried him back up the stairs and sat at the kitchen table with Hamish on his lap. John met them a moment later with a first aid kit and knelt in front of them.

"We've got a lot of blood here," said the doctor, wincing as he moved to dab at it so he could properly see the boy's injuries.

Sherlock gasped. "Blood?"

"Yeah, his nose is… I'll collect some for you." He rolled his eyes as he reached for a petri dish and held it under Hamish's nose. "Will that be enough?" John held it in front of the detective's face.

"Plenty, thank you," he said sheepishly, before returning to comforting his son who was still borderline hysterical. "Hamish, it's alright, everything's alright. Where is it hurting?"

"Dah," he said, grabbing onto the hand Sherlock had resting around his little waist.

"It's alright, Hamish, I'm here. John's going to fix you up."

"What is going on up here boys? What was all that noise? Is Hamish alright?"

"Na!" Hamish sobbed, clinging desperately onto Sherlock.

"Oh dear, what happened to you?"

"He fell down the stairs. We need a gate. How could we be so bloody stupid?" John fumed with himself as he passed a tissue to his flat mate who, in turn, held it against little Hamish's nose. His only injuries seemed to be the bleeding nose, another split lip and yet another bruised head. "Hamish, you need to calm down, little man. Everything's okay now. It's all okay. Now, would you like to have your bath before dinner today?"

"Mhmm." He stuck a thumb in his mouth and his cries were reduced to little hiccups.

"Okay. You stay here with Daddy and I'll run your bath."

"Ham hurt," he informed them as John disappeared down the hall.

"Yes, but you're alright now, aren't you?"

"Mhmm. Okay now."

"Hamish, why were you going downstairs?"

"Look Na."

"You wanted to see Mrs. Hudson?"

"Mhmm. Isit."

"You wanted to visit her."

"Yes."

"Hamish, you need to ask either John or me if you want to go downstairs and visit Mrs. Hudson because it isn't safe for you to go by yourself, alright?"

"Mhmm. Okay, Dah."

"Has your nose stopped bleeding?"

"Mhmm, stop. Okay now."

After his bath, Hamish seemed to have completely recovered from his fall, unlike his flat mates, who were so shaken up they wouldn't let the boy from their sight for almost a week.

* * *

They went to the park the next morning and saw Kate, the nappy-changing super-mother, who John caught staring at Hamish's injuries.

"He doesn't actually hurt himself that often," he explained. "He just likes to do it right before we see you."

"Oh, no. I wasn't thinking anything about it. Kids his age hurt themselves all the time. It's good for them anyway."

"Yeah, that's what Sherlock says."

"Hamish Watson Holmes, get down from there this instant!"

Sherlock was standing next to a large piece of play equipment with his hands on his hips. Hamish had somehow managed to climb onto the top of a tunnel that ran through the playground, about seven feet off the ground. The toddler was sitting, staring triumphantly down at his father.

"One minute," John said, rushing over to help his flat mate. "Hamish, you need to get down from there, mate, it isn't safe."

"Oh," he said, looking around himself for a way down. "Not."

"Not what?"

"Not down."

"You don't want to?"

"Can't."

"Yes, you can, Hame. It's alright."

"Tuck."

"Are you stuck?"

"Mhmm." He suddenly looked very worried and stuck a thumb in his mouth, gazing helplessly at John.

Sherlock, apparently, wasn't buying it. "Well, Hamish, you got yourself up there, you'll have to get yourself back down."

"Really, Sherlock, you want him to fall again? It's alright, bud, I'm coming to get you."

The detective rolled his eyes and John climbed onto the equipment to help the little boy down. He was sitting with one leg on either side of the tunnel, his hands in front of him, steadying himself.

"Hame, you need to wriggle towards me because I can't reach you."

"No. Tuck."

"You're not stuck, Hamish, it's okay. Come a little bit further this way and I'll get you down."

He hesitated for a moment before slowly sliding himself along the top of the tunnel, until he was within John's grasp.

"There we go, good man," he said as he pulled him into his arms. "You mustn't climb up so high, Hamish, or you get stuck just like that."

"Okay, John."

Once they were back on solid ground, John realised what Sherlock had said. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Did… did you… what did you call him?"

"Hamish Watson Holmes. That's his name."

"Why… is his surname hyphenated?" John placed Hamish on the ground and shifted from foot to foot.

"No, his middle name is Watson."

The doctor fell completely still and took a moment to speak. "Oh… since when?"

"Since last month when I had it changed," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh… Why… why did you do that?"

His eyes widened with panic. "I… is that not good? I just thought that…"

"No! No it's fine, Sherlock, I just… you didn't tell me… I'm just a bit… surprised, that's all."

"I did tell you. I told you when I did it."

"Was I home?"

"Well I assume so."

"Whether I was there or not, I didn't hear you tell me."

"Oh… but… it's alright? If you have a problem with it, I can easily…"

"No, really, it's fine."

"I just thought… You might want some of yourself in his name, apart from the Hamish, obviously. That isn't technically from you. I also thought it would be good for him. It would help Hamish to… identify himself with you."

"Yeah. That's… that's fine. That's really nice, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Did you get him down okay?" Kate was holding the hand of little Oliver, who looked as if he'd just gotten in trouble.

"Yes, fine, thank you," said Sherlock in a surprisingly friendly voice. "Hello, Oliver." He knelt down to shake the two-year-old's hand while John stared at him, eyes wide.

"Did you say hello to Mr. Holmes, Oliver?"

"Sherlock, please." He gave the little boy an awkward pat on the head and stood back to his full height.

"Listen, Sherlock, we're going to have to go home soon, I've got work at eleven."

Sherlock took a quick scan of the playground, making sure Hamish hadn't gotten himself into any more imminent danger, before answering John. "Go whenever you need to. Hamish and I are going into town anyway. We have some things to do."

"Oh, okay. What… what sort of… things?" John tried not to look too alarmed at the prospect of Sherlock taking Hamish out by himself.

"It's Mrs. Hudson's birthday next week, I thought we should probably get her something for minding Hamish so often."

"Oh, right. Yeah, that's a great idea. Just make sure… he has his sleep at…"

"I know when he has his sleep, John."

"Yeah, you do. Sorry, I just…"

"It's alright."

"Dah?"

"Yes, Hamish?" The little boy was jumping up and down and tugging at his coat pocket.

"Home now?"

"Have you finished playing?"

"Mhmm."

"Well, we need to go to the shops, is that alright?"

"Mhmm. Ah for?"

"It's Mrs. Hudson's birthday soon and we need to get her a present."

"John come?"

"No, sorry, Hame, I've got to go to work."

"Okay."

Just as John was about to leave them and go home, he took Hamish to the side to have a little chat with him.

"Now, Hamish when you're out in the city with Daddy, you need to make sure you always hold his hand, alright?"

"Okay."

"And you mustn't run off, you have to stay with Daddy all the time."

"Mhmm."

"And when Daddy says it's time to come home, there's to be no arguing."

"Okay."

"And if you need to be changed, you have to tell Daddy."

"Okay."

"And you must never…"

"John. It's alright. We'll be fine."

"Right, yes, of course."

"Okay, John," Hamish assured him.

"Well, have a lovely afternoon. Will you be home for his nap?"

"I'm not sure. We have the pram anyway."

"Bed a pram," was apparently Hamish's assurance that it was perfectly fine to sleep in the pram.

"Okay. I'd better get home then. Text me and let me know how you're going."

"Yes, John."

"Bah, John!"

**A/N: Only just got this done today like I said I would. It was a combination of me procrastinating and writing this chapter about 87 times. Anyway, while it is 10:39pm where I am, it is apparently only 5:39am in LA, so in other parts of the world it is very much still Tuesday. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, I wrote most of it this afternoon and tonight and I've never uploaded a chapter I've written that recently because I like to over-edit. Hopefully this makes up for the Hamishless chapter 12, perhaps I should have warned you guys that he wasn't in it. Also, some of you may be able to help me out. I'm very keen on details being correct when I'm writing but I am Australian and therefore not British so there are some things which I may be calling the wrong thing, or which may not even happen where the boys live. So, if I make any mistakes please feel free to let me know. Also, for those of you who are British, I have a couple of non-urgent questions regarding kids in Britain. Firstly, over here kids have to get a couple of immunisations when they're 18 months old and I was going to use that as a plot point but when I looked it up to check, apparently that doesn't happen in the UK and I just wanted to make sure that was true and whether kids have immunisations later or something? Also, I was wondering what you guys call sippee cups, although now I'm thinking about it, I'm not sure that we call them anything. In this story, I think I've been calling them kiddie cups but that probably isn't the right word for it so if somebody could clear that up that would be awesome. And ****_finally_****, I was just wondering how the school system rolls over there because over here kids go to preschool when they're 3 and 4, then they start kindergarten when they're 5 or 6 and primary school goes from grades K-6 and then high school goes from grades 7-12. So I was wondering if preschool is a thing in the UK or what goes on? Thank you in advance :) I hope you're all having a wonderful week. Feel free to leave a review. Chapter 14 will be up on Friday :) Be kind to each other and God bless.**


	14. Town

**Chapter 14 – Town**

"Walk, Dah?" He asked as he was being strapped into the pram.

"No, it's too far to walk. We're going to get the tube."

Hamish looked confused.

"The train, Hamish."

"Train?"

"Yes, the train."

"Thomas?" Hamish asked excitedly.

"Oh. No it isn't quite Thomas. It's similar." Sherlock eventually worked out how to take the wheel-lock off of the pram, and they set off for Baker Street Station.

"Fast?"

"Yes, I suppose it is rather fast."

"Blue?"

"They're normally red and white with a little bit of blue, yes."

"Okay, Dah."

* * *

"Now, Hamish, there's something I need to discuss with you." They'd been on the train for almost twenty minutes and Sherlock had managed to only tell off one person and give out three dirty looks.

"Okay, Dah."

"You must promise me that you won't tell John about this, alright?"

"Why?"

"Because it has to be a secret. I want it to be a surprise for John."

"Surprise?"

"Yes, do you know what that means?"

"Mhmm. Peppa Pig."

"I'm sorry?"

"Surprise Peppa George."

"Did Peppa surprise George?"

"Mhmm."

"Well, that's what we're going to do for John. It's his birthday soon and we're going to get him a present, but it has to be a surprise. Do you understand?"

"Mhmm. Surprise for John."

"Yes, good boy. Now I'm going to need your help to pick out a gift for him, do you think you can do that?"

"Mhmm. Car?"

"A car?"

"Yes. Big car. Big car for John."

"No, Hamish, that's a terrible idea. We can't afford a car, and besides, what would John need with a car? We have a perfectly good public transport service in this city."

"Oh. Sorry, Dah." Hamish's smile disappeared and he stared into his lap.

"Oh." Sherlock looked at his son in confusion and a little alarm. "I didn't… you don't need to apologize. You didn't do the wrong thing. I'm sorry. I suppose I shouldn't have said it was a bad idea. It wasn't a bad idea, Hamish, it's just not very practical. It was a lovely idea. I'm sure John would love a car. We just don't have enough money."

"Okay, Dah."

"You didn't do anything wrong, Hamish."

"Okay."

"We could get John a toy car if you'd like."

The little boy's smile returned at that. "Yes! Red car."

"Alright, a red car. That's an excellent idea, Hamish."

"Where red car, Dah?"

"We'll go to Hamleys for that. That's where John bought your bus."

"More tresent for John?"

"Yes, I think we should get him something else as well. Do you have any ideas?"

"Jam?"

"That's another good idea, Hamish."

"Tea?"

"Good boy, that's a new word."

"Mhmm. Good idea?"

"Yes, I think that's an excellent idea. We could also get him a new mug to drink his tea out of."

"Mhmm. Good idea, Dah."

Sherlock grinned.

"Ham walk, Dah?"

"If you want to walk, I'll get you out of the pram when we get to the shops."

"Okay, Dah. Present Na?"

"Oh, yes, we need to get something for Mrs. Hudson too."

* * *

"Hamish, you must hold onto this strap while we're walking along." Sherlock had lived up to his promise of letting the toddler out of the pram when they reached Oxford Circus and instantly regretted his decision. The crowds and general commotion had been beyond his estimates. He handed the strap which hung down off of the pram handle to the little boy.

"Okay, Dah. Shop?"

"Yes, we're going to the shop now."

Hamish was rather overwhelmed by Hamleys, abandoning the strap for his father's hand. They made their way up to the 'vehicles' level and the toddler dropped Sherlock's hand in awe. His eyes widened and his face broke into an enormous grin. "Toys, Dah!"

"Yes. There are lots of toys here."

"Look?"

"Yes, Hamish, you can go and look at whatever you wish."

"Dah come?"

"Yes, I'll come with you."

Hamish had to look at every single car on display before he decided on one for John's birthday. He then spent half-an-hour playing with a train-set, was frightened by a remote-control helicopter, shouted at another child for touching 'his train', was reprimanded by Sherlock for shouting at said child, shouted at Sherlock for reprimanding him, and was threatened with going home immediately. When he continued to argue, he was given a public time-out, something only Sherlock Holmes was shameless enough to execute.

"That's it, Hamish. You're getting a time-out."

"No! Dah, no!"

They'd had to bring in time-outs two weeks earlier when Hamish had kicked John for making him eat breakfast.

"Yes, Hamish. I told you to stop and you disobeyed me. Now, let's find a naughty step shall we?"

"No! Not step!"

Sherlock hoisted the boy into the air, holding him out almost a foot in front of him to avoid the onslaught Hamish's feet were giving. He found a small set of stairs and sat Hamish on the middle step.

"Alright, Hamish. That's one-and-a-half minutes. You were rude to that little boy, then you were rude to me, and you wouldn't stop when I asked you to."

Hamish stuck out his bottom lip and the lip-wobbling began, and was subsequently ignored. Sherlock stood at the bottom of the steps, staring at his watch and shooting his son the occasional frown.

"Right, good boy, Hamish, that's the end of your time out. Now you need to apologize to me, and then I want you to apologize to that little boy."

"Sorry, Dah."

"It's alright, Hamish."

He then meandered back over to the train set and said sorry to the other child, who had apparently completely forgotten about the incident anyway.

"Okay now, Dah?"

"Yes, Hamish. It's alright now."

"John car?"

"I've got John's car right here."

"Ham hold it?"

"You can hold it if you like. Be careful with it."

"Okay, Dah."

Hamish insisted upon buying it himself when they got to the checkout so Sherlock sat him on the counter when they reached the front of the queue.

"Hello, darling," said the lady serving them, smiling sweetly.

"Mhmm," he said, plonking the car onto the counter.

"Is this for you, sweetheart?"

"No. John."

"Is John your brother?"

"No."

"John's our flat mate, isn't he, Hamish."

"Mhmm. Flat cake."

"Right, yes, our flat cake."

"Oh. Your flat mate is he?" She gave Sherlock what she thought was a knowing glance. "Is John Daddy's special friend?"

Sherlock simply rolled his eyes and handed her his credit card.

"Ham do," he said when Sherlock tried to type in his PIN.

"No, Hamish, not today."

"Why?"

"Because that's only for adults to do."

Hamish pouted and held tightly onto the Hamleys bag the woman had handed to him.

"Now, Hamish, are you going to walk or do you want me to put you back in the pram?"

"Walk."

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

"You're not going to change your mind in five minutes?"

"Not."

They stepped outside and Hamish grabbed onto Sherlock's hand again.

"Up, Dah."

"I'm not carrying you. Either you walk, or you get in the pram."

"Pram."

The detective huffed, rolled his eyes, and set about strapping Hamish into the pram.

"More shops now?"

"Yes, we'll go and find John a new mug."

After much deliberation and indecision, Hamish decided upon a navy-blue mug in Liberty's which featured a London bus, Big Ben, and a number of Union Jack flags. Sherlock tried to steer him towards a jam and preserve gift set but Hamish was far keener to choose them himself. He chose a jar of lemon curd because yellow was his favourite colour that week, a jar of 'luxury' strawberry and champagne jam, and a jar of orange and whiskey marmalade.

"Good, Dah?"

"Yes, that's excellent, Hamish."

Sherlock was allowed to choose the tea, and they picked up a 'selections box' of sixty different types of tea. The toddler was becoming very restless. In the tea aisle, he'd been working solidly at undoing the straps on his pram and, having given up, had resorted to simply making little whining noises and kicking against the footrest of the pram.

"How does this look, Hamish?" He presented the box of tea to the little boy who frowned and huffed before answering him.

"Good, Dah," he told him. "Inish? Eat now?"

"Yes, we're finished shopping for John. Are you hungry?"

"Mhmm."

"We'll go and get some lunch, then."

"Yes. Eat now."

* * *

They went to a small café for lunch. "I know the owner, Hamish. I helped her convict her boss for murder. It was a very interesting case, actually, you see the…"

"Dah. Eat now?"

"Yes, of course. My apologies."

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Eileen," he gave an awkward smile as an incredibly large, red-faced woman, her grey-blonde hair pulled into a tight, unflattering bun, wrapped her enormous arms around his thin waist, squeezing him so hard that for a few moments, all he could do is think about the prognosis for ruptured internal organs.

"How are you, my dear?" She gasped, "And who is this darling little boy you've brought with you?"

"This is Hamish. Hamish, this is Mrs. Turner."

"He's not… he's not yours is he?"

Sherlock took instant offence, frowning and drawing his lips into a pout. "Of course he's mine."

"But who… I saw you not even six months ago, you didn't say anything about…"

"Hamish has only been living with us for a short while. His mother… well… I didn't know about him until a few months ago when his mother arrived at our flat and left him with me."

"Oh my word. How are you coping? I suppose John is wonderful."

"We're coping fine, aren't we, Hamish."

"Mhmm, good."

"Where is John today, you usually bring him."

"John uhk," said Hamish as his father slotted him into a high chair.

"Yes, John's at work."

"So what have you lads been up to, then?"

"Tresent for John," Hamish said. He then looked up at Sherlock, his eyes widening as he brought a little hand up to cover his mouth. Out came the bottom lip and he burst into hysterics.

"What, Hamish, what's wrong?" Sherlock pulled him back out of the highchair and held him tightly against his chest. "What's the matter?"

"Surprise… John," he managed to whimper out before he started sobbing again.

"What are you talking about? Why are you crying, Hamish?"

"Not… secret."

"Oh, Hamish. It's alright. It's still a secret from John, you didn't tell John. You can tell other people, it's alright, Hamish. Settle down, little one."

"Okay?"

"Yes, it's okay. It's all okay. And even if you forget and accidently tell John, it doesn't matter, alright? Everything's fine. I think you just need something to eat."

"Mhmm. Eat now."

"I'll get you some menus, dears." Eileen bustled back to the counter while Sherlock simultaneously shoved Hamish back into the highchair and wondered how a woman of that size could possibly move with such agility.

The detective was sitting in his own chair and getting a book out for Hamish to read when Eileen returned with some paper, crayons, and menus.

"Does he draw?"

"He loves to."

It was true. They'd only thought to give the toddler some crayons a few weeks prior and it had kept him occupied for an entire afternoon. He clapped and kicked his little feet in excitement when the art supplies were placed in front of him.

"Do you know what you'd like?"

"Chippies!" said Hamish.

"When have you ever had chips, Hamish?"

"John chippies."

"Right then, Hamish will have the children's fish and chips, and I'll have a half portion of the ravioli. Thank you, Eileen."

"And to drink?"

"What is this… fire engine drink on the children's menu?"

"It's creaming soda."

"Oh…"

"Yes!" Hamish decided.

"Is that alright, Daddy?" Eileen looked dubiously at the detective.

"Yes, it's fine. And I'll have a long black."

"Ta!"

They sat in pleasant silence while they waited for their lunch. It was occasionally disrupted by Hamish telling Sherlock something about the picture he was drawing, or by Sherlock making some sort of deduction or observation. These deductions always went the same way:

"Do you see that woman outside, Hamish?"

"Mhmm."

"Her husband is having an affair, and her son is gay but she's in denial about it."

"Okay."

"I can tell about her husband from the way she's buttoned up her shirt, and I can tell about her son from the wear-and-tear on her fingernails. Can you see that, Hamish?"

"Not. But okay, Dah," he assured him as he returned to his picture.

"Here are your drinks, boys."

Hamish's mouth spread into a broad grin when his drink was placed in front of him. "Ta."

"You're welcome, darling. He's got such beautiful manners, Sherlock."

"John," the Holmes' said in unison.

"Did John teach you your lovely manners?"

"Mhmm."

* * *

The fire engine was a bad idea.

It took less than ten minutes for the red food colouring to kick in. Hamish's originally meticulous drawings turned into the scrawl normally expected of an eighteen-month-old, due to the boy's sudden lack of patience. He threw a rather impressive tantrum about his food not being ready when he wanted, and was given yet another time out when he repeatedly threw his 'chippies' at Sherlock.

When they finished lunch, the toddler was still in a state of such ridiculous hyperactivity that Sherlock almost called John for back-up. Instead, they walked up to the National Gallery, and he stood by while his son ran up and down the steps outside the gallery, giggling hysterically, and occasionally taking breaks to chase the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, his new-found favourite hobby.

He would wait until a large number of the birds were gathered on the ground; he would then grin maniacally at his father, before racing through the group of pigeons, sending them flying. Then, he would laugh and clap, and perhaps jump up and down, before his attention ran out and he returned to running up and down the stairs.

As Hamish was beginning to slow down a little, Sherlock looked at his watch. Already almost half-past naptime, and the boy did not look ready for a sleep.

"Hamish!"

He ran down from where he was standing at the top of the steps, having a rather animated conversation with an old lady. "Dah?"

"It's time to go, Hamish. It's already time for your nap."

"Not sleep!"

"Well you have two options. The first is that if you are tired, we can go home right now and you can have your sleep."

"Not."

"Will you wait until I've given you both options? If you're not tired yet, we can go to another shop and get Mrs. Hudson's present."

"More shops."

* * *

Hamish chose a set of pale pink stoneware mixing bowls for Mrs. Hudson and as they were leaving the shop, the little boy eyed a cable-knit jumper which tickled his fancy.

"Dah!"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"For John." He pointed eagerly to the navy-blue jumper.

"That's an excellent idea, Hamish."

The detective was allowed to pay this time, although Hamish insisted upon holding the jumper separate from the bag they'd been given.

"Home now, Dah?"

"Yes, Hamish. Home now."

Hamish fell asleep on the way back to the tube station, his sugar-high finally over. When they arrived back at 221B, the detective carefully lifted his sleeping son from the pram, carrying him up the stairs and laying him in his cot, before stowing the gifts in the bottom of his wardrobe.

He returned to the cot and a rare smile spread itself across his face as he gazed at the little boy.

"Sleep well, Hamish."

**A/N: I am so sorry for not uploading this on Friday like I said I would. I've had a bit of a mental week. I haven't been well, I had to perform at a thing on Saturday and my brother was in his school musical this weekend so he had to be driven to performances, etc. Mainly the issue was that I was/am still having a bit of a creative crisis. Not exactly writer's block but I think if I didn't have you guys it could quite easily turn into that :) Anyway, you don't really want my life story. Hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm hoping to put the next one up on Wednesday, but if I have it finished earlier than that I'll upload it then :) Have an amazing week! Also, thank you so much to everyone who helped me out with all of my questions. You guys are gems :)**


	15. Chaos

**Chapter 15 – Chaos**

"I'm home," John mumbled as he trudged up the stairs. "My God. I have never seen so much chickenpox in one place at the same time."

Sherlock was sat in his armchair on John's computer, and gave him a little grunt of acknowledgement.

"How did you two go? Where's Hamish?"

"We went fine. He's hiding."

"From John!" a little voice shouted from behind the sofa.

"Oh! He's hiding from me, is he?"

"Apparently."

"I wonder where he is," John said at an unnecessary volume. A little giggle floated around the room and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John waltzed around the room, looking beneath cushions and behind the television, in the fridge and under the kitchen table, in the cupboards and even made Sherlock stand up just to make sure that Hamish wasn't hiding beneath him.

Finally, he tip-toed around the back of the sofa and said, "Boo!"

Hamish laughed so hard that he had to sit down. "John!"

"Hello, Hamish. How was your day?"

"Mhmm. Tresent for…" he stopped himself. "For Na!"

"Did you help Daddy choose it?"

"Yes. For cake!"

John raised an eyebrow and looked at Sherlock.

"We bought mixing bowls. Hamish chose them."

"How lovely. For Mrs. Hudson's cakes."

"Mhmm. Good idea, John?"

"It sounds like that was an excellent idea, Hame. What did you have for lunch?"

"Chippies and 'ish!"

"Alright, Hamish, we're going to work on some of your words," Sherlock announced, jumping up from the armchair and sitting on the floor in front of the toddler.

It was John's turn to roll his eyes as he walked off to get changed.

"Can you say 'fish', Hamish?"

The little boy sat down across from Sherlock, and took a deep breath before speaking.

"Ish."

"No, f-ish."

"Ish."

"No, Hamish. Fff-"

"Fff."

"Good boy. Now, fish."

"Ish."

Sherlock sighed. "Hamish. F-ish, fish, fff-ish."

"Fff-ish. Fish."

"Good boy! Excellent work, Hamish! Now, can you say, 'What'?"

"Ah."

"No, Hamish. What."

"Ah."

"No, Hamish. What. Wh-at, what."

"Wh-at. What."

"Well done, Hamish." The toddler was given a kiss on the forehead and a proud grin.

"More?"

"You want to do some more?"

"Mhmm."

"What about Daddy?" John asked as he walked into the kitchen.

"Dah."

"No, Hamish," said Sherlock, "Daddy."

"Dah. Daddy."

"Good boy, Hamish!" John cheered from the kitchen.

"Daddy," Hamish said again, trying the new name out. "Yes. Daddy."

"Where is your Daddy, Hame?"

He looked at John as if he'd lost his mind, then glanced back at his father, making sure that he hadn't disappeared.

"Here, John." He pointed at Sherlock, looking rather confused.

"I know, Hame. I was just being silly. Now, what do you want for dinner?"

"Packnakes?"

"Well, pancakes aren't really a dinner food, Hame."

"Why?"

"Uh… that… is a very good question. Pancakes it is, then."

* * *

John arrived home from work one afternoon to find the flat in a state of disarray so profound that he feared he would never be able to return it to anywhere near normalcy.

He really shouldn't have been surprised. London had been cursed with a week of the most ridiculously torrential rain that only those who couldn't take time off work, or were completely insane, were game enough to leave the house. John had planned to take the week off but the stupidly cold weather had brought about an influx of cold and flu victims who apparently needed urgent medical attention. This meant that John had worked eight hours a day, six days in a row, and Sherlock had been stuck inside, alone with a rowdy toddler for all of that time.

At the top of the stairs sat a soaking wet and muddy pile of clothing. One pair of Hamish's trousers, four socks, one shirt of Sherlock's, two gumboots (Hamish's), one pair of Sherlock's shoes, two of Hamish's t-shirts, one of Hamish's beanies, Sherlock's coat, and a jacket of Hamish's. Apparently, they had ventured outside today.

The living room floor was completely covered in a layer of toys ranging from cars and trains to blocks to soft toys to puzzles at various levels of completion to xylophones to art supplies, and a miniature supermarket trolley, although his flat mates were nowhere to be found.

The kitchen was perhaps even worse than the living room, or at least, it would be a lot harder to clean it up, and in the middle of the chaos were his Holmes'.

Almost the entire room was coated in a thin film of flour, and there was a puddle of milk at Sherlock's feet. The duo had clearly dropped at least three eggs and John hadn't even been aware that they owned so many bowls and cooking utensils.

Hamish was standing on the kitchen table in nothing but a pair of pajama pants, covered from head-to-toe in flour and something that looked suspiciously like egg. Sherlock was stirring something in a bowl, also wearing nothing but his pajama pants, his hair covered in a fine layer of flour, and he seemed to have spilt the milk down the front of his chest before it had reached the floor. The toddler was holding a whisk above his head, dripping cake mixture into his hair, and was at the same time, giving his father instructions which John doubted was actually helpful.

"Uh… hello."

"John!" Hamish shouted, waving the whisk in the air and spraying batter around the room.

"Good evening, John."

"What exactly is happening in here?"

"Shhh!" said Hamish, bringing an eggy finger up to his lips. "Surprise for Na."

"It's alright, Hamish, she's gone out. We're making a cake for her birthday, John. You didn't forget about it did you?"

"No, of course not, I just… um… I'll just… go up and get changed."

* * *

"Hamish, stay there, the oven's very hot."

Instead, the toddler took one step closer to the oven and reached a little hand towards the tray.

"Hamish! Don't touch that! Just… it's alright." Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes and pulled the now sniffling little boy into his arms. "There's no need to cry, you're not in trouble."

"Step?"

"No, you don't have to sit on the step. You aren't in trouble, Hamish. I was just worried about you hurting yourself. The oven is very very hot and I need you to stand back."

"Ulp Daddy," he explained as he was placed back on his feet.

"Well, it's lovely of you to offer and you are a wonderful helper, but I don't need help with this part. It's just for adults to do. Do you understand?"

"Mhmm."

John scooped Hamish up and asked, "What kind of cake is it, Hame?"

"Nummy cake."

"Is it a yummy cake?"

"Mhmm. Daddy Ham try."

"Daddy let you try some?"

"Mhmm. Card, John."

"Yes, Hamish, go and show him what we made."

John put him down and he ran into the living room, tracking flour through the rest of the flat, and returning after a few moments with a piece of cardboard in his hands. He was followed by a light trail of glitter that ran all the way through the living room.

"Look!" He held it up for John to see, spilling glitter all through his own hair.

"Oh my goodness, look at that." John carefully took it from him and opened it up.

They'd used a piece of green cardboard which Hamish had clearly folded himself. The front was covered in glitter, animal stickers, and glue; and Hamish had illustrated the inside. Sherlock had written the following inscription, obviously as dictated by Hamish:

_Dear Mrs. Hudson/Na,_

_Happy birthday. We hope you have a nice day with presents, cake, jam, Postman Pat, helicopters, flowers, the park, music, no prams, naps, a jumper like John's, a boat, pancakes, a crocodile, funny hats, Detective-Inspector Lestrade, crayons, a bath, a story from Daddy, no vegetables, teeth, a blue fish, blankies, pizza, glitter, and clean nappies._

_Love from Sherlock, John, and Hamish._

"That's a beautiful card, Hamish. Mrs. Hudson will love it."

"Mhmm. Glitter."

"Yes, there's lots of glitter on there."

"Daddy ulp."

"Did Daddy write the words?"

"No, Ham."

"Are you sure?"

"Mhmm," the boy frowned, adamant that he had written on the card.

"Hamish, I don't think you quite understand," Sherlock spoke up. "You told me the words you wanted on the card, but I actually wrote them down, didn't I."

"Mhmm. Daddy draw."

"Yes, I drew them, but you thought of them, and that's the trickiest part."

"Mhmm."

"You're very clever, Hamish," Sherlock said earnestly, continuing to stare at the boy as if making sure that he properly understood.

John wondered if perhaps nobody had praised Sherlock as a child. This out of character behaviour had surely been brought on by some sort of childhood memory.

"Okay, Daddy."

"Good. Now, the cake's in the oven, so it will be ready in a little while and when it's cooked, you can help me ice it."

"Ice?"

"Yes."

"Brrr," said Hamish, wrapping his arms around himself, pretending to be cold.

"No, not that kind of ice, Hamish. This kind is a verb. We're going to _ice_ the cake with icing, as opposed to _ice_ cubes which are cold. Ice as in ice cube is a noun, but ice as in to ice a cake is a verb. A verb is a doing word and a noun is a naming word. Now, you need a bath."

* * *

Bath time was just about the happiest time of day in 221B, so much so that Sherlock and John usually argued over whose turn it was to be the principle bath-supervisor.

"It is _my_ turn, John."

"No it isn't. You did it last night."

"I did not."

"Don't even try to pretend you've forgotten, Sherlock. It's _my_ turn tonight."

"It is not. Do you really think that I would forget whose turn it was?"

"No I don't. But I most definitely think that you'd pretend it was your turn when it wasn't. Because you're a child."

"A child? I'm not the one getting snippy about whose turn it is to give our son a bath!" He froze when he realised what he'd said, and John was the first to speak.

"Our son?"

"Bath now?"

Hamish was stood behind them, still coated in cake ingredients, and helpfully removing his pajama pants.

"It's _my _turn," said John, picking Hamish up and carrying him into the bathroom.

* * *

John had to run two baths. The first to wash off Hamish's cake coating, and the second to make sure he was actually clean. They were playing the anatomy game when Sherlock came in to 'help', sitting on the floor next to the bath and simply being in the way.

"Where is your nose, Hamish?" John asked as he rubbed shampoo into his hair.

Hamish grinned, giggled, looked mischievously at John, and pointed to his ear.

"Is that your nose?"

"Mhmm." His grin widened and John laughed.

"Is it really?"

"Yes. Nose, John."

"You're silly, Hamish."

"Buddles?"

"Do you want me to turn the bubbles on?"

"Mhmm."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, ta."

They'd bought a battery-operated bubble blower and, after going through two litres of bubble mixture on the first day, only allowed Hamish to use it at bath time.

John reached over and switched it on while Hamish sat, almost shaking in anticipation. It made a little sputtering sound, then a whirring noise, but no bubbles.

"Upty, John?"

"Yes, it's probably empty. Let me look at it." Sherlock said as he tried to push past him and was given a glare and an elbow in the ribs.

"I am quite capable of filling it up myself, thank you very much. You're not even supposed to be in here, it's…"

"John?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Buddles?"

"Yes, I'm doing them right now, little man."

"Daddy, hand?"

"Oh, yes." When Sherlock had shown Hamish that he could put mixture on his hand and catch bubbles without them popping, it was as if all of the mysteries of the universe had been revealed to him.

The giggling that was occurring in 221B Baker Street when they finally got the bubble machine going brought Mrs. Hudson up the stairs to make sure she wasn't missing out on anything too exciting. The first they heard from her was an "Oh, boys! The mess! Oh, don't just leave these wet clothes here on the landing. Oh my word, this living room! What has been going on in here?"

"Don't go in the kitchen!" Sherlock and John both shouted.

"It's worse," said John as he dashed out to distract her. "We… ah… just… We'll tidy it tomorrow. It's the rain. I've been working all week and Sherlock's been here with Hamish. It's been so wet and gloomy. But I've got a few days off now so everything will be ship-shape again in no time. Don't you worry."

"Right, well make sure you do. I'm you landlady, not your…"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, not our housekeeper."

"What was all that giggling about then?" she said, bustling into the bathroom. "Oh, look at those bubbles, Hamish!"

* * *

"Daddy, Na tresent now?" Hamish was sitting in his booster seat trying to do up the buckle. Nobody was allowed to help him.

"No. It isn't her birthday today. We can give her present to her tomorrow, on her birthday."

"Card?"

"Yes, her card too."

"Cake?"

"Yes, and we'll have her cake as well."

"We'll have a little party for her, how does that sound?" said John as he served the dinner.

"Good. 'Alloons?"

"Yes, I'm sure we've got some balloons somewhere in here. Although, maybe it would be best if we have the party at Mrs. Hudson's flat," he said, surveying the chaos that was theirs. "It's probably a little bit messy up here for a party."

"Ice, Daddy?"

"We're going to ice the cake after dinner, alright?"

"Okay."

* * *

"Now, Hamish, just let me do this part, and then you can decorate it, alright?"

"Mhmm."

Hamish sat on the table, next to the cake, eating sprinkles out of the jar while his father iced the cake.

"Alright, Hamish, it's ready for you."

Sherlock turned around to find the choc chips they'd bought, and by the time he returned to the cake, Hamish had tipped the entire jar of sprinkles on top of it.

"Look, Daddy!"

"Yes, that's… wonderful, Hamish. Do you mind if I spread them out a little?" They'd fallen in a large mound in the middle of the cake, leaving the majority of it undecorated.

"Okay. More, Daddy?"

"There aren't any more sprinkles," he said. "What about these chocolate chips?"

Hamish clapped, grabbed the bag of choc chips, and started trying to open it. His brow furrowed in concentration, and when he couldn't get it open, he threw the bag onto the bench with a huff.

"Would you like some help?"

He didn't answer, he simply made a little grunting noise and glared at the bag.

"Here you go." He was passed the newly opened bag and proceeded to tip all of its contents on top of the cake. Sherlock grabbed onto his wrist and moved it around as he poured so that at least there would be an even spread.

"Good, Daddy?"

"I think it looks excellent, Hamish."

"Bed now?"

"Yes. It's time for bed now.

**A/N: Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry for uploading this a week late. Anyway, I'm quite proud of this chapter so I hope it makes up for my radio silence. I've been having a bit of a creative crisis so it's been a bit of a struggle to write. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. Also, thank you so much to the guest who pointed out that the trip Hamish and Sherlock took in the last chapter covered a ridiculous distance, and for giving me suggestions for alternate destinations. Reviews that correct my lack of research are incredibly helpful and super appreciated so thank you so much for that. I'm about to edit that chapter using your suggestions :) If I ever make a mistake like that PLEASE point it out. I'm not English and have only ever spent a grand total of nine days in London. Anyway, enjoy this chapter, feel free to leave a review, and have an awesome rest of your week. I will update soon :)**


	16. A Birthday

**Chapter 16 – A Birthday Party**

Sherlock was woken at 5am the next morning by somebody very small climbing onto his bed. He sat up so quickly that poor little Hamish was almost thrown onto the floor.

"Daddy?"

He lay back down in relief and said, "Oh. Good morning, Hamish."

"Up now?" He asked, climbing onto Sherlock's chest and lying down. His little body relaxed as he settled into the steady rise and fall of his father's breathing.

The detective yawned, rubbed his eyes, and glanced at the clock.

"It's very early, Hamish. How did you get out of your cot?"

"Out, Daddy." He gave him a proud grin.

"Yes, I can see that. Did you climb out?"

"Mhmm. Clever?"

"Ah… yes, I suppose it was clever of you, just a bit… inconvenient."

"Na cake now?"

"Oh, Hamish. It's too early for cake, and I don't think Mrs. Hudson would be up yet."

"Ham up."

"Yes, I know that you're up, but people get up at different times, Hamish, and it's very early."

"Oh. Cake soon?"

"Why don't you stay here and go back to sleep for a little while? And when you wake up again we can give Mrs. Hudson her present."

"Cake?"

"We'll have the cake later, alright?"

"Okay, Daddy."

"Go back to sleep, Hamish."

"Okay, Daddy."

* * *

Once they were all up, John, Sherlock, and Hamish headed downstairs with Mrs. Hudson's presents, one from John, and one from the Holmes'. The two adults sat at the bottom of the stairs, and sent Hamish to knock on her door.

He stood in his dinosaur footie pajamas, one hand wrapped tightly around the handles of the gift bag. Hamish knocked with a surprising amount of force and then shoved a thumb in his mouth while he waited.

The door opened to reveal Mrs. Hudson in her dressing gown and slippers.

"Oh! Good morning, Hamish."

"Hatty Ubfday, Na." He'd been practicing this phrase all morning, over and over again, and looked very pleased with himself when he got it out. He pushed the gift bag towards her and smiled.

"Oh, my darling." She picked him up and cuddled him before walking out to the hall in search of the other boys.

"Happy Birthday!" they shouted in unison, genuine smiles plastered across their faces.

"Thank you, dears."

"Open tresents, Na."

"He's been busting to give them to you."

"Come inside, the three of you, I'll put the kettle on. Have you eaten?"

"We weren't allowed," said John as they filed into Mrs. Hudson's flat. "He made us leave the second we were all up, as you can see." He gestured towards himself and his flat mates, all still in their pajamas.

"Never mind, boys, I've got some banana bread I made yesterday, I'll pop it in the toaster."

* * *

Hamish insisted on pulling the gift bag into the flat by himself, and fell over four times on the way. John told him that Mrs. Hudson wouldn't open the presents until she'd eaten breakfast, so he sat on the counter next to the toaster, staring at it and humming something which sounded a little bit like the 'Thomas the Tank Engine' theme. He was about to throw a tantrum about it taking too long when the bread popped up.

He stood up and jumped off of the counter, causing every adult in the room to gasp and move to catch him, although he landed on his feet, overbalancing a little and steadying himself against the wall.

"Okay," he informed them, smiling as he climbed onto a chair, then onto the dining table, where he sat next to the presents. "Open now?"

"One more minute, Hamish. I'm just buttering this banana bread."

"Oh, I'll do that, Mrs. Hudson, you sit down and open your presents or he'll explode."

She sat at the table and pulled the gift bag into her lap, removing the card first.

"Oh, boys. Did you make this card, Hamish?"

"Mhmm. Daddy draw word."

"Daddy wrote in it did he?"

"But Hamish thought of what to write, didn't you. And he decorated the card," said Sherlock, sitting next to Mrs. Hudson.

"That's beautiful, Hamish, thank you." She kissed his forehead and he grinned.

"Okay, Na. Open tresent now?"

"Yes, darling, I'm just getting to it." She pulled out a small, soft package wrapped in floral paper.

"John," said Hamish, pointing to the doctor.

"Yes, this one's from me. It's not much, but…"

"Oh, John, dear, you didn't have to get me anything. Just seeing you is quite enough. Oh, that's just lovely." She opened it and pulled out a purple knitted snood.

"It's starting to get cold and all of the girls at work talk about those things."

"It's lovely, John. Thank you so much."

"More tresent, Na!" said Hamish, making sure she hadn't forgotten.

"Yes, Hamish, dear, would you like to help me open it?"

"No. Na turn."

"Oh, you're a sweetheart," she said as she pulled their gift from the bag.

It was wrapped in butcher's paper which had been decorated by Hamish. He'd drawn somewhat abstract flowers, grass, and the sun, and had employed Sherlock's help to draw the skull that sat on their mantelpiece. He'd also stuck what looked like about seven sheets of space, car, and animal stickers, all over the paper. Finally, he'd put a number of sets of hand prints in green and blue paint, and underneath them had written, with a lot of help from Sherlock, his name.

"Open, Na!"

"Yes, dear, I'm just looking at this beautiful paper that you've made."

"Daddy ulp."

"Did Daddy help you?"

"Mhmm. Open now, ta." He tapped on the present and kicked his feet expectantly.

"Hamish, you need to be patient, please." John placed a calming hand on his head and Hamish stuck his thumb in his mouth.

Mrs. Hudson carefully pulled the wrapping off while John shoved a piece of banana bread into Hamish's hand to keep him occupied.

"Oh, my boys, how lovely!" she said as she finally pulled the paper away to reveal the mixing bowls.

"For cake!"

"Yes, Hamish, for my cakes."

"Mhmm. Cake now, Daddy?"

"No, Hamish, it's far too early for cake."

He looked disappointed for a moment before he remembered the banana bread sitting in his hand and started eating it again.

"Good tresent, Na?"

"Yes, you sweet little thing, it's very good. It's beautiful, thank you so much."

"What do now?"

"Now, Hame, we're going to go back upstairs and get dressed. Do you have anything planned for today, Mrs. Hudson?"

"My sister's coming around for lunch."

"Excellent, well we'll be back down for afternoon tea if that's alright."

"That sounds wonderful." She gave him a smile and kissed Hamish's cheek.

* * *

"Oh," said John as they returned to their flat. "I forgot about the mess."

"Ham ulp." And with that he set about tidying his toys.

John started with the kitchen, and Sherlock sat on the sofa, watching them both.

"Really, Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

"Are you actually going to sit there while your one-year-old cleans the flat?"

"I'm supervising him," he said, folding his arms and glaring at the doctor.

"Why don't you help him?"

"No, John. Ham okay," said Hamish as he sat, pulling the train set apart and throwing it into its crate.

With another eye-roll, John returned to the disaster their kitchen had become.

About five minutes into his tidying, Hamish was distracted by a natural history book he found on the floor. He carefully flicked through it until he found a page he liked the look of, and dragged the book over to his father.

"Daddy read?"

"Of course."

"Ta, Daddy." He climbed onto the sofa, and then onto Sherlock's lap, snuggling himself back against his chest.

"Ah. This is the Bengal Tiger. Panthera Tigris Tigris. According to this book, the Bengal Tiger is the most common subspecies of tiger. They can be found in India, grow to be up to six feet long, and can weigh up to five hundred pounds. They are carnivorous mammals, and they…"

"Stop, Daddy, stop." He waved his little arms in a panic while Sherlock stared at him.

"What's wrong?"

"What…" He scrunched up his face and pointed to Sherlock's mouth. "What say, Daddy?"

"Oh, you'd like me to explain what a carnivorous mammal is."

"Mhmm."

"Alright, well, a mammal is any vertebrate, that means any animal that has a spine…"

"Pine?"

"Yes. This part of your back." Sherlock traced a finger from the base of Hamish's neck to the top of his trousers.

"Okay."

"So a mammal is any animal that has a spine, which is warm-blooded, as opposed to reptiles, which are cold-blooded, has a four-chambered heart, and nourishes their young with breast milk. Alright?"

"Okay."

"And a carnivore is a type of animal that only eats meat."

"Okay. More read, Daddy?"

"Yes, we'll move on. Bengal tigers, like all other tiger subspecies, are endangered, that means that there aren't very many of them left."

"Where tiger go?"

"Where did they go?"

"Mhmm."

"They're dead. This is due to hunting and deforestation in the last century or so. Anyway, the…"

"What dead?"

"Ah… dead is when… when we get old or sick and our bodies stop working, and we go to sleep forever. Like that fly on the windowsill, can you see it?"

"Mhmm."

"Alright?"

"Mhmm. Okay, Daddy."

"Good. Female Bengal tigers give birth to litters of between two and six cubs, can you see the baby tiger in this picture?"

"Mhmm. Daddy what tiger say?"

"What do they say?"

"Mhmm."

"Uh… well they roar and growl I suppose."

"No, Daddy. Cow say moo," he said.

"Yes, cows do say moo, that's correct."

"What tiger say, Daddy?" He turned around on Sherlock's lap so that he was facing his father.

"I know what tigers say," said John, coming out of the kitchen, pulling off his washing-up gloves on the way.

"What?" Hamish turned back around and slid off of Sherlock's knees and onto the ground, running over to where John now stood.

"Rah!" he said, picking Hamish up and tickling him as Sherlock looked on in amusement.

"Clean now, John?"

"Yes, I'm almost finished in the kitchen. How's it going out here?"

"Not."

* * *

With the help of John and 'The Packing Up Song' which he had heard on one of the television shows Hamish watched, the living room was spotless in under an hour.

Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and had a heated argument over the phone with Lestrade while Hamish and John got lunch ready. When he emerged, Hamish was sitting on the bench while John made sandwiches.

"More jam… More… More jam, John… More."

"Alright, Hame, that's enough."

"Not. More jam, John. Ta."

"That's all you're getting," he said, putting the bread together. "Squares or triangles?"

Hamish thought for a moment and then made a triangle with his fingers, holding them in the air.

"Triangles?"

"Mhmm. More jam, John."

"No more jam, Hamish. You're teeth are going to fall out."

He gasped and brought a little hand up to his mouth, eyes widening.

"Tee?"

"No, Hame, it's alright. I was just being silly. You just can't have too much jam because it's not very good for you. Your teeth are fine, there's no need to worry."

"Okay. Eat now?"

"Yeah, we can eat now."

"Daddy!" said Hamish as John lifted him from the counter and into his seat at the table.

"Hello, Hamish."

"Do you want a sandwich, Sherlock?"

"Mmm. Olives and jam, please."

"What? Olives and…"

"Yes, John. Thank you."

"Squares or triangles?" Sherlock gave him a bemused look before John realised what he had said. "Oh… shut up."

"Squares, please." He smirked and sat next to Hamish. "Lestrade just called."

"Oh is that who you were yelling at? I thought it must have been Mycroft. What happened?"

Sherlock let an angry breath out through his nose and clenched a fist in frustration. "He let Anderson run riot on a crime scene that they had no idea what to do with and now they've cleaned it up and taken whatever evidence they managed to collect, probably all irrelevant, back to Scotland Yard. Why does he do this? He knows that they're completely useless and yet he won't ever call me about these things. And _now_ he calls and says he needs my help."

"Ham help?" he asked through a mouthful of jam which he'd licked off of the inside of his sandwich.

"No, Hame, it's only for grown-ups," John said before Sherlock had the chance to say something ridiculous that would end in Hamish being taken to a crime-scene before his second birthday.

"Oh. Na now?"

"After your sleep."

* * *

John was sitting in his armchair, writing on the blog, when he heard a small noise at his side. He almost had a heart attack when he turned to find little Hamish, his hair sticking out in all directions from his sleep. He gave John a little smile before climbing into his lap.

"Hello, Hamish."

"Mhmm."

"How was your sleep?"

"Good."

"Did you get up by yourself?"

"Mhmm. Out."

"Oh yes," said Sherlock as he emerged from the kitchen, pulling off his safety goggles. "I forgot to tell you. He can get out of the cot."

"Na now?"

"Yes, we can go for afternoon tea now. Let me just put your trousers back on."

* * *

Hamish hurried down the stairs ahead of his flat mates and the cake, and knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Cake, Na!" he shouted when she opened the door.

"Oh, hello! Have you had your sleep?"

"Mhmm. Cake now."

"Off you go inside, Hamish, so John can bring the cake in. Quickly now." Sherlock hurried him into the flat and sat him at the kitchen table.

"Cadnels, John?"

"Yes, I'm doing the candles."

Hamish's eyes lit up when John struck the match and held it to one of the candles. He reached a little hand over to the now-lit candle and moved to touch it.

"No!" Sherlock grabbed his wrist and pulled it away. "That's hot, Hamish, don't touch it. You may only look at it."

Sherlock did not sing 'Happy Birthday', but Hamish and John sang it with such gusto that Mrs. Hudson barely noticed the detective's non-participation.

"Hamish, why don't you tell Mrs. Hudson who made this cake?"

"Ham Daddy."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. Ham spinkles. Daddy ice."

Hamish managed to smear icing across his entire face and into his and Sherlock's hair. He also spilt his water down the front of his shirt, and had to take it off because he couldn't cope with it being wet.

"Na?" He had been running around the flat playing with a bubble wand while the adults had a little afternoon kip.

"Yes, dear?"

"What tiger say?"

"What to tigers say?"

"Mhmm."

"I don't know. Do you know?"

"Mhmm. Tiger say 'Rah'!"

* * *

They had dinner at Mrs. Hudson's, and stayed to watch television with her until Hamish fell asleep against John's chest.

"Ah. Looks like it's time to go." John announced, standing up slowly, and trying to avoid waking the boy. "Happy Birthday, Mrs. Hudson."

"Thank you, John dear. Thank you so much for today. I had a wonderful day. Hamish is…"

"He's a treasure," said Sherlock as he moved across the room to hug his landlady. "Take care."

"And you, dears."

**A/N: Sorry about the delay, guys. Hopefully this chapter will make up for it. Thanks again for your continued support, I love to hear from you so don't hesitate to leave a comment.**


	17. Idiotic

**Chapter 17 – Idiotic**

On one particular Monday, John was at work for the morning and Sherlock had been researching for a notably puzzling case he'd been working on since the previous Wednesday.

Hamish had been quiet for quite some time and Sherlock looked up from his laptop, only just realizing that it had been almost half an hour since he'd last checked on the boy, who at the time had been innocently playing with his trains.

Sherlock heard a delighted giggle come from the kitchen and felt his stomach drop to the floor as he stuck his head around the doorway. His son had used the drawers to climb onto the bench-top and was now quite happily sitting there, a bread knife in one hand, and a chef's knife in the other.

"God! Hamish! Put those down this instant!"

Hamish gave him a look as if he'd done nothing wrong as the detective snatched the knives from his hands and pulled him off of the bench and into his arms.

"You must not play with knives, Hamish. They're very sharp, you could hurt yourself."

"Hurt?"

"Yes. That was idiotic, what were you thinking?" Hamish suddenly started crying and calling for John. "Hamish, John's at work, he'll be back this afternoon."

"No!"

"Hamish, what's wrong?"

"Not Daddy!" he shouted, pushing fruitlessly against Sherlock's chest.

"What are you talking about?"

"Not Daddy! Down!"

Hamish kicked and struggled and cried until Sherlock finally lowered him to the ground, his brow furrowed in confusion. The little boy then stood up and toddled into the living room where he sat in a huff and tried to put a puzzle together, refusing to accept Sherlock's help.

When John got home two hours later, his flat mates were both sat in the middle of the living room floor. Hamish playing with his cars, and Sherlock sitting cross-legged in front of him, being completely ignored by the toddler.

"John!" Hamish shouted, pulling himself to his feet and running over to the doctor. "Up!"

"Yes, yes. Hello, Hamish, how was your morning?" John asked as the boy cuddled him.

"Daddy bad." He frowned and pointed at Sherlock, who was still sitting on the floor.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't understand it either, John. I got a little distracted and I came into the kitchen and he was sitting on the bench with knives in his hands."

"Oh, God."

"He's not hurt but I told him he could have been and that it was an idiotic thing to do. And then he started crying for you and he wouldn't stop until I put him down, and he hasn't spoken to me since."

"You said it was idiotic?"

"Well it was!"

"Sherlock, he doesn't understand that. You must have upset him. Maybe he thought he was in trouble or something. Hamish?"

"Mhmm?"

"Daddy isn't mad at you. He was just worried. He didn't want you to hurt yourself because knives are very dangerous."

"Oh."

"You aren't idiotic either, Hamish, it's just a silly thing to do, that's all. You're very intelligent, actually," Sherlock added.

"Mhmm. Bed now?"

"Yes, Daddy can put you to bed now."

"No! John!"

"Nope," said the doctor. "Daddy's going to take you."

"Oh," he said again, allowing himself to be passed to his father.

"Is it alright now, Hamish?"

"Okay Daddy," he assured him, snuggling into his chest.

"I'm sorry that I upset you," he whispered, placing a kiss on his forehead.

"Okay, Daddy," he mumbled as he fell asleep.

"I'm trying, John," Sherlock sighed, slumping into his flat mate's armchair.

"I know you are. You're doing really well."

"There's no need to be patronizing."

"Sherlock… how… how long were you distracted for?"

"I forgot you were at work," he said dismissively.

"Can you answer my question?"

"About half an hour. He was fine."

"I don't suppose I need to tell you that he could have quite easily not been fine."

"No, that won't be necessary."

"If you need to do work or something, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson would be happy to…"

"It won't be necessary, John," he snapped. "I will be more careful next time. This is just taking some adjusting."

"Which is fine."

"I know it's fine. How was work?"

"I… uh… sorry?"

"Do you have a hearing problem? I asked you how work was."

"Um… it was… it was fine. Actually… if you really want to know, I had this patient this morning who…"

"No, I don't."

"Don't what?"

"I don't really want to know."

"Well why the hell did you ask me then?"

"I wanted you to stop telling me I was 'doing really well,' and that it would 'take time,' and all that drivel you keep going on with."

John's hands clenched into fists at his sides and he took a few deep breaths to stop himself from completely losing it at the detective. "You… can be such a dick sometimes. I was trying to make you feel better."

"By lying to me?"

The doctor sat across from Sherlock in his armchair. He sighed, closed his eyes, opened them again, and tried his best to keep calm. "I never lied to you, Sherlock. You _are_ doing well, and it _will_ take some adjustment. You've had, what, two meaningful relationships ever apart from him? You can't expect to be able to…"

"It isn't often that I'm not good at something, John."

"I am well aware of that, but relationships are something you're not good at, so you're just going to have to get over it and put some effort in."

"I _am_ putting effort in, can't you see? I hate being around people less intelligent than me and yet here I am all day every day, spending time with a child who can't even speak!" His face was red and he took deep breaths through his nose as he glared at the doctor.

It took all of John's self control to not punch his flat mate. "You have got to be joking!" He stood and clenched his hands into fists. "Sherlock, he is your son…"

"I know that, John."

"He's not less intelligent than you, Sherlock, he's a baby. There's a difference. If you were expecting that this would be fun because you'd finally have a friend as smart as you were and you could do experiments with him and go to crime scenes together, you were gravely mistaken. That's not what this is. You are a parent now. He is your child. You have to care for him and help him grow into a _functioning_ member of society, and if you're…"

"What exactly are you implying?" Sherlock stood to his full height in an unsuccessful attempt to intimidate John. "That I am not a functioning member of society. Is that what you're saying?"

"No, it's not what I'm saying! I'm saying that your job here is not to experiment on Hamish and observe him, your job is to raise him into a good man."

"I am _not_ experimenting on him. Do you really think, after the childhood that I had, being prodded and examined by psychiatrists and pediatricians, and 'Do this puzzle, Sherlock,' and, 'What does this look like to you, Sherlock?' and, 'Recite the periodic table of elements, Sherlock.' Do you really think I would do that to my son?"

"Okay, Sherlock. I… I'm sorry. I just… You need to…"

"John, you've said this yourself. It has nothing to do with you. He isn't your problem and he isn't your responsibility, he's mine. I am trying."

"Look, we had this conversation a month ago and you said that you did care for him and that you would put more effort in because you don't want to adopt him off."

"I don't."

"Well maybe we should! Maybe it would be better for him if he wasn't here! Because if he thinks that you don't like him or that you think he's stupid, he is going to be the unhappiest child in Britain! And so help me, Sherlock Holmes, the unhappiest child in Britain will _never_ live in my house, do you understand me?"

But Sherlock had disappeared, down the stairs and out the front door.

A minute or so after his abrupt departure, a text came through.

_Need to see Molly about a case. Will be home later. Can you watch Hamish? – SH_

_No problem. I understand if you need some time to cool off. Take your time. I've got Hamish covered. We're not finished talking about this, though – JW_

**A/N: I had this chapter pre-written so I thought I'd give it to you since you all waited so patiently for the last chapter. Hope you're having a good weekend. Chapter 18 will go up in a few days :) Also, if you happen to notice any typos, don't hesitate to let me know and I'll fix them :)**


	18. Love

**Chapter 18 - Love**

"Where Daddy?" Hamish was sat in his seat at the dining table, eating his afternoon tea, a banana which he'd insisted on mushing into a horrible glug in his bowl because apparently that made it 'better'.

"Daddy's gone out for a little while. He'll be back later."

"Work?"

"No, he's not at work, he just… He had to go to the shop," he lied.

"Why?"

John sighed. "I… I don't know, Hame. Just… eat your banana." He closed his eyes and pressed his index fingers against his temples.

"Okay, John." Hamish dejectedly returned to his food and John's eyes snapped open to look at him again.

"Oh, Hamish. I'm sorry, little man, I'm not mad at you, you're not in trouble. You didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

"Okay."

"I love you, Hamish." He looked sincerely at the little boy who cocked his head to the side.

"What love, John?"

"Oh, Hame. Um… it means that I really like spending time with you. That you mean very much to me. That I will always keep you safe. It means that you're my very very good friend. I feel better whenever I see you, Hamish and you make me very happy. That's what love means."

"Daddy love Ham?"

"Yes, Daddy loves you very much, Hamish. Daddy loves you more than he loves anybody else."

"John love Daddy?"

"Yes," John sighed. "I love your Daddy because he's my best friend."

"Happy?"

"Does he make me happy?"

"Mhmm."

"Yes, he does."

"Daddy love John?"

"I care for John very much, Hamish. He's my best friend."

"Daddy! Back!"

"Yes, I'm back." Sherlock grimaced as Hamish jumped down from his seat to hug him, smearing banana around the bottom of his coat in the process.

"I love you as well, Hamish."

"Mhmm. Ham love Daddy."

Sherlock pulled him into his arms and held him tightly, placing a kiss on his forehead.

"Kiss!" Hamish said.

"Yes. Is that alright?"

"Mhmm. Why?"

"Because I love you very much, Hamish. When people love each other, they give each other kisses."

"Oh," he said, before leaning up to sloppily kiss Sherlock's cheek.

"Thank you, Hamish."

"Daddy kiss John?"

"No, John and I don't kiss each other."

Hamish looked slightly disappointed. "Oh. John not kiss." The toddler sat in thought for a moment before reaching his arms out towards John, and, once in his hold, kissed his cheek as well. "There," he said.

"Thank you, Hamish, that's lovely."

"Better?" He looked pointedly at Sherlock who smiled and nodded.

"Much better, thank you, Hamish."

**A/N: Thanks again for all of the awesome feedback, it means a lot :) Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. The next one will hopefully be up in a few days.**


	19. The Supermarket

**Chapter 19 – Supermarket**

"Boys, I'm just going to the supermarket, do you need anything?" Mrs. Hudson asked, poking her head in the door to the flat. "Oh, hello, Hamish."

"'Lo, Na." The little boy appeared to be the only one home, sat on the floor in the middle of the living room, reading a book and watching Shaun the Sheep, wearing only his London tube themed pajama bottoms.

"Where is everyone?"

John suddenly emerged from the kitchen, shopping list in hand, also wearing only his pajama bottoms. "Oh, good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry, I was just doing the shopping list. What did you say?"

"I'm going to the supermarket. Give me that list, I'll pick everything up for you."

"No, it's fine. Give me your list, I'll get it. Consider it thanks for minding Hamish last week. I was honestly going today anyway."

"Where?" Hamish's attention was instantly drawn by the prospect of an outing.

"I'm going to the supermarket, Hame."

He suddenly looked rather excited. "Ham come?"

"Yes, you can come if you want. But first we'll have to get dressed."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, followed closely by a cloud of steam, his hair dripping, and a towel wrapped around his waist.

"Shops!" said Hamish.

"Oh. I'll come too if you'd like."

* * *

In under an hour, all of the inhabitants of 221B were dressed, a complete shopping list had been written, and all three Baker Street boys had opted in for the trip to the supermarket.

"Really, Sherlock, you don't have to come. I can just take Hamish."

He frowned in offense. "Don't you want me to come?"

"No, it's not that, I just…"

"You don't want me to come." He sighed and slumped down onto the sofa.

"No, it's fine, Sherlock, of course you can come. It'll be a big help actually. You can keep Hamish amused."

"No, John, I'll just stay here. You clearly don't want me to come. I'll stay out of your hair." He glared at the floor and John rolled his eyes.

"There is no need to be passive aggressive, Sherlock. I am quite happy for you to come; I just didn't want you to feel obliged to. Have you ever even been to the supermarket?"

"Yes, John. Although it may surprise you, I did actually have a life before you limped into it."

Another eye-roll from the doctor. "So why don't you ever… Forget it. Are you coming or not?" He breathed steadily through his nose in an effort to not punch the detective.

"Well, you clearly don't want me there. Just go ahead and take _my_ son with you. I'll stay here." And with that, Sherlock rolled over to face the back of the sofa.

"That's funny because a minute ago, he was _our_ son, Sherlock. Which is it?"

He grunted and shifted his position slightly, but didn't answer.

"Sherlock! You are being such a child! We need to sort this out, he…"

"Fine! I'll come." He shot up from the sofa and disappeared into the bathroom.

"No, Sherlock, that's not what I…"

"Go now, John?" Hamish had one hand wrapped tightly around a Thomas the Tank Engine toy, and was using the other to tug at the pocket of John's jeans.

"Yes, we're going now, Hamish."

"Daddy come?"

"Yes!" said Sherlock as he waltzed down the hall and started pulling Hamish's coat on, and making sure his shoes were still done up. "Of course I'm coming."

* * *

"Now, Hamish, you must behave while we're at the shop, alright? It will take quite a long time so you'll have to be patient. And if you're good you can choose something special, okay?"

"Okay, John. Toy?"

"If there is a toy there that you like, and you are well behaved, you can have a toy."

"Ta, John."

"And, Sherlock please… just… please don't speak to anybody. Do you think you could do that?"

"Oh, that's what this is about. I embarrass you." Sherlock stopped wrestling Hamish into the pram and stared at the ground for a moment. "I can just stay here, John."

"No, Daddy come."

"Yeah, it's fine, Sherlock, I really shouldn't have said anything. It'll be easier with two of us, honestly."

"Right." He continued trying to force Hamish into the pram while John went back upstairs as he'd forgotten the list.

"Not pram, Daddy!"

"Hamish, it's too far for you to walk."

"Not pram, Daddy. Okay? Okay. Ta, Daddy," he said, as if it were decided.

"Hamish…"

"No, Daddy, not pram. Out. Ham walk."

"Hamish, it's too far for you to walk, you'll get much too tired."

"Daddy up," he said, a simple solution to his problem.

"No, I'm not carrying you. If we don't take the pram, you have to walk."

"Okay. Ham walk."

"Hamish…"

John returned downstairs to find his flat mates in the middle of one of the most civilized disagreements he'd ever witnessed.

"John, Ham not pram. Ham walk," the toddler informed him, pushing himself out of the pram and onto the ground.

* * *

"Daddy up?"

"Hamish." He sighed and huffed for a moment. They'd only just left the flat, and it was barely a five minute walk to the supermarket. "No. I'm not carrying you. You said that you'd walk, so that's what you're going to do."

"Tired."

"Well, you should have thought about that when you wouldn't let me bring the pram."

"John up?"

"Hame, if Daddy says no, then that's the answer."

Hamish suddenly let go of his father's hand and sat himself in the middle of the footpath, his arms folded as he glared at Sherlock.

"Hamish." Sherlock came to a halt, also folding his arms and staring the toddler down. "Alright. If you can walk all the way there by yourself, I'll help you walk home. Is it a deal?"

"Okay." He stood back up, took his father's hand, and kept walking.

"Hame, could you please be a big helper and hang onto the shopping list for me?"

"Mhmm." John passed it to him and he clutched it tightly in his free hand, counting the items. "One, two, t-t-three, four… Daddy?"

"Can you remember what comes after four?"

"No."

"Have a think and try again."

He looked back at the list, counted to four again, and stopped. "Daddy?"

"It's five. One, two, three, four, five."

"Oh. Five. Okay. Daddy, what say?" he asked, pointing at the list.

"That word says 'eggs'."

"Eggs," he repeated, before turning his attention to his surroundings.

He'd been doing that a lot lately. Sherlock and John weren't sure whether he was deducing the people around them, or committing his various areas of exploration to memory, but whenever they left the house, the boy's focus was immediately on his environment. Usually, Hamish would talk quietly to himself as he walked along, and if they weren't holding his hand, he was often accidentally left a few yards behind them, as he constantly stopped to look at things.

"Sherlock, do you need anything that isn't on that list?"

"Uh… Yes. Rat poison, lubricant and a pig's heart."

"Well, I don't think they sell pig's hearts at Tesco's, Sherlock."

* * *

By the time they'd reached the second aisle, John was ready to kill somebody. First of all, they'd managed to choose the most ridiculously uncontrollable trolley in Britain. Then, while Sherlock was helping Hamish count out the oranges as John piled them into a bag, an old couple had stood, not two feet away, and muttered to each other about how 'such people shouldn't be allowed children,' and something about ruining the sanctity of marriage. Then, Sherlock had a rather embarrassing argument with some poor employee about the fact that the tomatoes were being sold in the vegetable section when they were quite clearly a fruit, and that it was 'inadequate', and 'misleading children such as my own'. Then, John had stupidly passed Hamish a carton of eggs to hold onto in an effort to occupy his waning attention, and when he had his back turned, the toddler had purposely thrown the entire carton onto the ground. The final straw was when Sherlock, in the rudest possible way, told a woman off for 'not supervising her children' while Hamish was in mid-tantrum regarding the broken eggs, and John was cleaning up said broken eggs.

"Alright! Sherlock, come back here and leave that poor woman alone. Why don't you deal with your own kid, instead of insulting other people about theirs? Hamish, are you crying because of the eggs?"

"Yes! Broke!" He kicked his feet and beat his little fists on the handle of the trolley.

"Well I don't know what the hell you thought was going to happen when you threw them on the floor!"

This only caused him to cry harder and Sherlock glared at the doctor while the recently Sherlocked woman sidled from the aisle.

"I would appreciate it if you did not shout at my son, Doctor Watson."

They stood, staring each other down for a moment while Hamish stopped crying, apparently quite keen on an Aisle 3 domestic.

"Okay, are we going to do this here?"

"Do what?"

"Whose son is he, Sherlock? Sometimes he's _ours_, but sometimes he's just _yours_. Which is it?"

"I refuse to have this conversation in front of him."

With a huff, a clenched fist, and a deep breath, John had overcome the intense desire to punch Sherlock, and instead said, "Sherlock, just… go and get your lube and rat poison and meet us at the breakfast cereal. I need a minute."

"Would you like me to take Hamish?"

"I don't care, whatever you want."

"He can stay with you. He's your son too, John. As long as you're alright with that."

"It's fine, but I want to talk about this properly."

"Okay now?" Having been disappointed by the lack of shouting match, Hamish was keen to keep moving.

"Yes, Hamish, it's alright now."

* * *

"John?"

"Yeah, Hame, what's up?"

"Bad pants," he said, frowning and pointing at his trousers.

"Oh. Do you need changing?"

"Mhmm."

"Can it wait until we're done?"

"Yucky, John."

"I know, mate. Maybe when we meet Daddy in the next aisle, he can take you to get changed."

"Okay."

When he was hit in the back of the head with something very small, John turned back to the trolley to find that Hamish had reached down and pulled the bag of grapes into his lap. He was now sitting, quite happily eating them one-by-one, and occasionally throwing them in the general direction of the doctor in an effort to get his attention.

"Hamish, don't do that please. We don't throw food around in the shop. And stop eating them, we haven't paid for them yet."

"Daddy!" Sure enough, there was Sherlock, sauntering down the aisle, lubricant and rat poison in hand.

"Has he been behaving?"

"Yeah, he needs to be changed, can you take him? No, Sherlock, please don't put those anywhere near the food."

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm not going to the self-serve, I hate it."

"Well I'm not being served by one of those imbeciles."

"We've done a full shop, Sherlock, it'll take hours."

"John, go now?" Hamish was resting his head on the trolley handle, looking grumpy and tired. It was well past naptime and had been a rather eventful shopping trip.

"Fine, we'll go through the machines." He rolled his eyes and pushed the trolley into one of the self-serve bays. Sherlock insisted that, because he was 'by far the most intelligent', he should be in charge of scanning the items.

Before he'd even chosen what to scan first, an attendant had to be called over, due to a non-existent 'unexpected item in bagging area'.

She had to be called over again when they were about halfway into the trolley, because the machine was yelling at Sherlock, 'Please place the item in the bagging area', and he was yelling right back at it, "It's in there you bloody stupid machine!"

Then, after she'd helped them, Sherlock told her that she was "the most intellectually challenged individual I've ever come across, and I work with the British police force."

Hamish fell asleep in the cab, a thumb in his mouth, his free hand wrapped tightly around Sherlock's lapel. The detective carried him to bed and then started immediately on his lube and rat poison experiment, leaving John to cart all of the groceries up the stairs, and pay for the cab.

"Thanks for the help, Sherlock." He finally slumped into an armchair with a cup of tea and opened the paper.

"You're welcome, John," he said, not even bothering to look up from the microscope.

"I was being sarcastic. Is Hamish in bed?"

"Yes. I had to get started on this experiment, John; it's for a very important case, and I would appreciate it if you watched Hamish this afternoon so I can work."

"Well, I'd appreciate it if you went into the lab to work, Sherlock. You know he doesn't like you doing it here."

"Fine. Now, you wanted to speak with me about whose son he is?"

"Yeah. Just because this is a really long-term arrangement, Sherlock."

"He already looks to you the same way he does me."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes. Would you prefer for him to call you 'father' or something?"

"I'm happy with him calling me 'John'. He can call me whatever he feels comfortable with."

"John… if something were to… happen to me…"

"I'd like to keep him," he said decidedly.

"We should sort out that paperwork, then. Now, I'm off to the lab. Text if you need anything. Thank you, John."

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Once again if you have any prompts or suggestions, please feel free to leave them in a review :) Also, the writer 13go over at Archive of Our Own is translating this story into Chinese, if anyone else was thinking of translating it, that is absolutely fine, you can email it to me over at jayofthebarricade at gmail, and then I can upload it here and at AO3, just to keep everything in the same place. Hope you're all having a great week!**


	20. Not His Date

**Chapter 20 – Not His Date**

"Hamish, will you sit still and let me wipe your nose."

He held the still-unused tissue in one hand, and tried to get a firm hold on the back of the toddler's head with the other.

"No! Yucky, John!" Hamish tried to wriggle away but his escape attempt was thwarted by John grabbing him around the waist and pulling him into his lap.

"Yeah, no kidding, mate, you've got snot running down your face."

"Mhmm. Boogies."

John laughed as he was finally able to at least wipe his face clean. "Where did you learn that word, Hame?"

"Daddy say boogies."

The doctor nearly dropped the tissue. "Does he really?"

"Mhmm. Daddy say 'They yucky boogies, Ham'."

"Is that what Daddy says?"

"Mhmm."

"Daddy's full of surprises isn't he."

"Na!"

She wasn't even at the top of the stairs when Hamish greeted her, and smiled when the little boy flew out of John's lap and across the room to hug her legs.

"Hello, Hamish dear. John, I've booked you boys a table at Angelo's for six-thirty tonight, alright?"

"I… uh… thanks, Mrs. Hudson. For Hame too?"

"No, love, I'll mind him. Just for you and Sherlock."

"Oh… okay… are you sure? He's got a cold, he's pretty grotty."

"Yes. We'll have fun, won't we, Hamish."

"Mhmm."

Sherlock, who had been lying on the sofa in his mind palace since before breakfast that morning, suddenly returned to reality and said, "What's happening?"

"We're going to Angelo's. Mrs. Hudson's booked us in; she's going to mind Hame."

"Why?"

"Oh, I just think that you two need a little break," she smiled and picked Hamish up. "Now, Hamish and I will go downstairs and watch some telly, you two had better get ready."

* * *

"Hamish, you must behave, do you understand me?" Sherlock knelt before his son, holding his little hands between them.

"Mhmm."

"When Mrs. Hudson asks you to do something, you must do it."

"Okay."

"Mrs. Hudson is in charge, alright? When she says it's time for bed, then it's time for bed, and you mustn't argue."

"Okay, Daddy," he pulled an irritated face and tried to tug away from Sherlock's grasp.

"You need to be good for me, alright?"

"Mhmm. Okay, Daddy. Go now."

"Good boy. I'll see you in the morning. Have a lovely night. I love you."

"Mhmm. Love Daddy too."

Sherlock kissed is cheek, ran a hand through his curls, and stood, his posture stiff.

"See you, Hame."

"Bye-bye, John. Love him."

Hamish still hadn't quite grasped the concept of pronouns and how to use them correctly.

"I love you too, little man."

* * *

They sat in the cab in complete silence, Sherlock staring at his hands clasped in his lap.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?"

"Mmm? Fine."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine."

"Hamish'll be okay."

"I know." Apparently he had lost the ability to give eye-contact.

A sigh. "Mrs. Hudson's looked after him loads of times before."

"I know," he said, a little more forcefully than he'd meant to.

"Is it because it's at night?"

"I…"

"Sherlock, we're raising a child together. We need to be able to talk about things like this."

"I don't… talk about things, John."

"Yeah, I know. But if you need to…"

"I'm anxious for a number of reasons."

"That's okay."

Finally, eye-contact. It was a glare, but at least the detective was looking at him. "You are not my therapist."

"I know that."

"I'm worried about her bathing him."

John nodded. "She'll be careful, though, Sherlock. And he isn't scared of it anymore."

"But what if… he only isn't frightened of it with us? He might panic if we aren't there."

"If Mrs. Hudson needs us, she'll ring."

"I don't want him to be scared, John."

"He feels safe with her. What else are you worried about?"

"I don't like the idea of us not being home when he goes to bed."

"Why not?"

"I don't… he might… he might feel that we've abandoned him."

"Why might he think that? He knows we're coming back."

"I just…"

"Is this about you or Hamish?"

"I suppose… it is a product of my own childhood."

"Sherlock… he is not going to have the childhood you had. He is loved and cared for, and he _matters_. He matters so much to us, and to Mrs. Hudson, and to Mycroft, and to Lestrade. And he knows how much we all love him. I know that you'll never let him feel like he isn't loved."

* * *

Angelo pulled Sherlock into a bone-crushing hug the second he walked in the door, and ushered them to their table, shouting all the while. "Sherlock! And you've brought your partner with you. You two haven't had a date night in so long! How are you John?"

"I'm fine, thanks, but we're not… I'm not…"

"Why do you bother, John?" Sherlock smirked as he sat down.

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"I know that we're not sleeping together, and you know that we're not sleeping together, what does it matter what other people think?"

A sigh. "Sherlock, I'm not gay, and if everyone thinks I am, I have absolutely no chance of ever finding someone."

"Someone for what?"

John frowned in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Now they were both confused. "What do you need someone for, that you can't find if everyone thinks you're gay?"

"A woman, Sherlock," he said, as if the detective was a complete moron.

"Oh. Are you still… oh."

"Am I still what?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and pretended to look at the menu.

"Sherlock?"

"Looking for a… partner." He spat the word out as if it personally offended him, not even bothering to meet John's gaze.

"Well… yeah."

"Right. Good for you. What are you eating? I'm leaning towards the risotto."

"Are you… did you think I'd… given up?"

"No, I just thought that since we had Hamish now, he was fulfilling your emotional needs."

And it dawned on him. "Oh. He is… I just… have… other needs as well."

Sherlock pulled a disgusted face. "John, that level of detail is hardly necessary."

"It _does_ alarm you." A smile spread across his face while Sherlock's frown deepened.

"What does?" he snapped.

"Sex!"

"Will you keep your voice down?" he hissed, looking around the restaurant. "It does _not_ alarm me."

"_Why_ does it alarm you?"

Sherlock responded with a glare, returning to the menu.

"You're not… are you? Have you really never..?"

"Shut up. What are you eating?"

"Sorry. The penne."

* * *

Sherlock recovered quickly from his embarrassment, a rarity in itself; and they found conversation easy and constant. Apparently, they'd been spending less time together than they thought and had a fair amount to catch up on.

"Molly's pregnant, did you know?"

John choked on his mouthful of pasta and stared, wide-eyed at his flat mate. "What? Molly Hooper?"

"Yes. Almost three months along now, she should be announcing it soon."

"Sherlock… were you planning on telling me this?"

"I just did."

"Does she know that you know?"

"I'm sure she wouldn't be surprised."

"Whose is it?"

"Some moron's. He left her when she told him."

"Oh my God. How long have you known?"

"A few weeks."

"Sherlock!"

"We've been so busy, John. You're constantly at the clinic, Hamish has had this cold, I've been working on this case. I was going to tell you."

"How is the case going?"

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he dropped his fork as he launched into a Sherlockian monologue.

"It's fascinating, actually. seven identical murders of real estate agents. Two in Scotland, one in Essex, one in York, one in Bath, and the other two in central London, yet all under exactly the same circumstances, and with only a week between the first and the last. No forced entry, houses all locked from the inside, yet they're definitely not suicides. And do you know the most interesting part? All four men have identical tattoos on the insides of their dominant wrists." Sherlock grinned maniacally and returned to his risotto.

"How close are you to solving it?"

"Close, John. Although, I'd appreciate a second opinion. Would you be able to come down to the morgue tomorrow and take a look at the bodies?"

"Yeah, sure, as long as Mrs. Hudson isn't Hamished-out. I love him to pieces but he's pretty tiring."

They both chuckled, smiled and relaxed into a few moments of comfortable silence.

"I think we should discuss education before Mycroft starts annoying us about it," said Sherlock after he'd ordered a second bottle of wine.

"Oh, right, okay. Well… what did you have in mind?"

"I don't care. My only condition is that he doesn't go anywhere near any of those awful boarding schools my parents forced me into."

"Alright, that's fine. I've never really liked the idea of sending your kids away, anyway. What's the point in having them if you're just going to palm them off like that?"

"Yes, quite right."

"So, just a normal school for him, then? We could send him to a public day school, I'm sure he'd get a better education there. That's important to you, yeah?"

"Yes, well, we'll have to see how he goes. I... he may not thrive at school and I don't..." Sherlock stopped and cleared his throat. "I don't want him in an environment where he doesn't feel safe."

"What... what do you mean?"

"He'll be bullied." Sherlock said, using the voice he always used when John didn't understand him. He sighed and buried his face in his hands as John stared analytically at him.

"Bullied?"

"Yes, bullied."

"Why will he be bullied, Sherlock?"

"Because that's what happens to children who are even the slightest bit out of the ordinary. Weren't you bullied?"

John's brow furrowed and Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Am I out of the ordinary?"

"Yes, of course you are. I'd hardly tolerate you if you weren't."

"I got picked on a bit in secondary school."

"I suppose it's unavoidable for a child like Hamish." Sherlock sighed again and glared at his plate, as if it were responsible for his son's supposed fate. He jumped when his phone rang, and panicked when he saw it was Mrs. Hudson. "Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, dear. Hamish is just going to bed, and he wanted to say goodnight to you both."

There was a rustling sound and some rather loud whispering as the phone was passed to Hamish. Then, there was a sudden "'Lo, Daddy!" at a ridiculous volume.

"Hello, Hamish. Are you going to bed?"

"Mhmm. Ham be good."

"You've been good?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"Good man. Did you want to speak to John?"

"Mhmm. Ni, Daddy."

"Goodnight, Hamish."

He passed the phone across the table and John smiled. "Hey, Hame. Did you have a fun night?"

"Mhmm. Bed now."

"Yes, it's bed time now. Have a good sleep, little man."

"Mhmm. Daddy be good?"

He laughed and said, "Yeah, Daddy's being good. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

"Okay. Ni, John."

"Goodnight, bud."

* * *

"Were you bullied then?"

Sherlock was reading something on his phone while John ate dessert, and didn't even look up when he was spoken to. "What?"

"Were you bullied… at school?"

"Of course I was!"

"All through?"

"Yes. From the very beginning."

"Who by?"

"Must you interrogate me like this? Nobody liked me. Can you imagine me getting on with any of my peers?"

"You get on with me."

"You're not normal. Your tolerance of me is the first of its kind I've experienced."

John calmly placed his fork on is plate and caught his flat mate's gaze. "I don't just tolerate you, Sherlock. If that's all it was I would have moved out when you… when you left, I wouldn't have waited around. I care about you, you know that."

"Why did you wait around? You thought I was dead. I've never understood why you waited for so long, when you didn't think I would come back."

"Look, this is really… I don't like talking about it."

"I'll tell you about my schooling if you tell me about… that time."

John paused for a moment, mulling it over, before nodding and saying, "You first."

Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. "I had one friend when I first started primary school. Robert. His brother was Mycroft's best friend so I think his mother forced him to be nice to me. It didn't last very long anyway. At that age I didn't understand how… normal children behaved, and I had little awareness of my own behaviour. I'm sure you notice that I still struggle with that. I've never really had… a filter." He stopped and rubbed his temples with his fingers.

"You right?"

"Yes, I'm just… trying to remember. I couldn't delete it but it's… at the back of my memory."

"Take your time."

"You're not my therapist."

"No, I'm not, but I think you need one."

This was ignored. Sherlock took a deep breath and continued. "You must understand, I never went to nursery, and Mycroft is much older than me. Until I started school, I had never been exposed to the way that a normal five-year-old should be. For the first few weeks I didn't understand why the other children would… laugh at me. Whenever I answered a question or was asked to show my work to the class which, as you can imagine for a child of my intellect was often, they would laugh. All of them, even Robert. I asked Mycroft about it and he said that they were just cruel and jealous which… I suppose was true but it wasn't enough of an answer for me. I asked Robert and he said that it was because I was odd."

John gave a sympathetic not-quite-smile not-quite-frown, his eyes urging Sherlock to continue.

"The turning point was Week Seven of reception. The tallest boy in our class cornered me in the play ground and started saying things. The usual, you know, 'freak', 'weirdo'. Then he said that I had no friends, and I said that I did, and that Robert was my friend. So he turned to Robert and asked him if he was my friend." He sighed. "He said no, that he wasn't my friend, that he didn't like me, and who'd want to be friends with a freak?"

"Oh, Sherlock."

"It started when I was five and it never stopped. But I have a friend now." There was still a little uncertainty in his eyes when he looked across the table.

John was quick to confirm. "Yeah, you do."

"Mycroft always let me sit with him at recess and lunch. It was very kind now I come to think of it. But he was in his last year of primary school when I started so by the time I was in year one he'd gone to boarding school and I was… well…"

"Alone."

"Yes."

"What about your parents?"

"I never told them. I'm sure they knew. It couldn't have been surprising. I thought my father would be disappointed in me, and I didn't want to worry my mother. I managed to avoid it quite well. I'd sit in the library, or sometimes my teachers would let me stay in the classroom during the breaks. It was worse at boarding school. I couldn't escape in the afternoons. My roommates were often rather cruel, but by the middle of secondary school they'd put me in a room by myself on Mycroft's request so that made it a lot easier."

Silence fell across the table and John poured them both another glass of wine.

"Your turn, John."

"Right." He took a sip of wine and a deep breath. "For about six weeks after… after you jumped, I was… stuck. I didn't leave the flat. I was… it was…" A sigh. "I missed you a lot. More than I thought I would. I missed your bloody experiments all over the flat and the body parts in the freezer and the violin in the middle of the night. I always regretted that I'd never told you how important you are to me. I knew you mustn't have had many friends before. You don't get told that often that people actually like you, in spite of…"

"My personality?"

John cleared his throat. "Well… you're not the easiest of people to live with. Anyway… I… this is going to sound stupid, but I guess it turned out to not be so stupid after all. I sort of… I suppose I didn't really know… I _hoped_ with everything I had that you weren't dead. That's why I waited. Just in case. That's why."

"That's… very touching, John. Thank you for… yes… well." He cleared his throat and pretended that he'd suddenly seen something very interesting in his wine glass while John did some stammering of his own.

"Yeah, well. Thanks for telling me about… you know… all that stuff… I suppose that was difficult… Should we ah… get the bill?"

* * *

They should have checked the weather before they decided to walk home. John had brought a flimsy compact umbrella which was so small that the tops of their heads were the only areas that weren't completely soaked.

The boys walked quickly down Baker Street and had almost reached the flat when a rather attractive woman about John's age, soaked to the skin, ran to catch up with them and grabbed the sleeve of Sherlock's coat.

"Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry but I've just moved down from Scotland and I'm wondering where I'd be able to get a cab?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Can't you…"

John hit him, actually hit him. A rough whack on the arm, and pushed past him to give the woman directions. He also gave her his umbrella and a charming smile.

"Thank you so much. I'm Mary by the way."

"John Watson."

They stood awkwardly staring at each other while Sherlock huffed.

"Sorry, this might be… totally out of line, but… could I have your number? Life's short, that's all."

* * *

And so, they walked down the rest of Baker Street, Mary Morstan's phone number clutched tightly in John's hand while they were slowly saturated.

They pulled the door to 221B open and rushed inside, stripping off their wet coats and scarves and stumbling up the stairs.

"John!"

Sherlock was standing at the door to his bedroom, staring into the room in horror.

"What's wrong?"

"Mrs. Hudson!" The detective bolted through the flat and down the stairs.

John's eyes flicked to Hamish's empty cot and he felt ready to throw up. Meanwhile, Sherlock flew down the stairs and into Mrs. Hudson's flat, where he breathed a sigh of relief.

"It's alright, John!"

Their landlady was sat in her armchair fast asleep, with Hamish in his pirate pajamas, thumb in mouth, blanket in hand, cradled against her chest, his back slowly rising and falling with sleepy breaths.

John ran down the stairs and came to a halt in the doorway, his entire frame relaxing as a smile made its way onto his face.

Sherlock carefully scooped Hamish into his arms, and Mrs. Hudson woke with a start.

"Oh, Sherlock, it's just you. I'm sorry, I did put him to bed but he was rather anxious about you not being home so he couldn't sleep. I brought him down here to see if it would settle him."

"Well, it seems to have worked. Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for watching him. We had a lovely evening."

He nodded and meandered up the stairs to put his still-sleeping son to bed.

"Yeah, thank you so much, Mrs. H. We really needed that."

"Any time, dear."

**A/N: Sorry about the delay, I've been pretty flat out. I've written almost all of the next chapter so it will hopefully be up in a few days. Hope you're all having a great week! :)**


	21. Another Birthday

**Chapter 21 – Another Birthday**

"Hamish, are you sure you don't need help?"

"No, Daddy. Not help," he said, pulling about a foot of tape from the roll and sticking it on top of the paper.

After another four attempts at wrapping the gift, he hit it, kicked it, growled, and glared at it, before folding his arms and sitting in a huff.

"Hamish, settle down, please."

"Bad," he said, pointing at the half-wrapped present.

"Well, I think you just need to let me help you a little. Now, how about you fold it, and I'll hold it while you stick it together?"

"Okay, Daddy. Not big help."

"No, not a big help. Only a little help, alright?"

"Mhmm. Not big."

He grabbed a corner of the paper and haphazardly folded it up. Sherlock then held it there while Hamish pulled off far too much sticky tape and stuck the paper together.

By the end of the escapade, John's present was… well, it was wrapped. Hamish looked very proud of himself, and it seemed that the wrapping would hold. They collectively tied a ribbon around the gift for extra security, and Sherlock patched up the areas that were missing paper, or where the tape was beginning to peel away.

"Good, Daddy?"

"It looks excellent, Hamish."

* * *

"Daddy?"

3am.

A very small silhouette was stood next to the bed, its head cocked to the side as it watched him wake up. A groan. "Hamish, really…"

"Daddy, up now, ta. John ubfday now," he said, running towards the door and trying to open it.

"No, it's far too early. John's still asleep."

"Oh. Ham wake up John."

"No, since it's John's birthday, we'll let him sleep as long as he wants, alright?"

"Okay. Ham stay?" he said, climbing onto the bed.

"Yes, you can stay here until the morning."

* * *

"Hot, Daddy?" he asked from his spot on the bench.

"Yes, Hamish, the pan's hot, please don't touch it," he said, gently sliding the boy slightly further away from the stove.

"Try?"

"Yes, you can try some." He scooped a spoonful of the scrambled eggs from the pan and blew on them before handing Hamish the spoon.

"Oh," he said as he chewed them, pulling a face.

"What's wrong?"

"Not good, Daddy. Yucky."

"Oh." Sherlock took a bite of his own and pulled an identical face, before shooting a panicked look up the stairs, ensuring John wasn't up yet.

"Ham get Na. Na help." He climbed down off the bench and headed down the stairs. Hamish then knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door and waited, blanket in hand, until she appeared in the doorway. "Na help Daddy?"

"Of course, darling. What does Daddy need help with?"

"Food for John." He grabbed her hand and all-but dragged her up the stairs and into their kitchen.

"Oh, Sherlock, how lovely for you to have tried."

"There is no need to be patronizing, Mrs. Hudson," he said from where he was sitting huffily in a dining chair.

She first set about cleaning up the mess they'd made, pots, pans, knives, forks, wooden spoons, metal spoons, egg shells, bacon rind, and spilt milk.

By the time John meandered down the stairs, flattening his hair and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, breakfast was completely finished, his flat mates and landlady waiting for him at the table.

A small pile of gifts was stacked in John's spot, Hamish was sat on the table next to the presents, and the breakfast covered the rest of the dining table. Coffee, tea, freshly squeezed orange juice, bacon, scrambled eggs, toast, pancakes, marmalade, and jam, which Hamish was currently eating out of the jar with his finger.

"Happy Ubfday, John!" he shouted.

"Oh my… wow. Um…"

"Sit! Tresents now."

"Right, yes, of course."

He shuffled into the kitchen and sat in his spot while Hamish passed him the first parcel. "Na," he said.

John carefully opened the package, pulling out a hand-knitted forest-green jumper. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, that's lovely. Thank you so much."

"It's alright, love. Make sure you try it on and see if it fits because I can easily alter it." He pulled it on over his pajama shirt, a perfect fit, and stood to hug Mrs. Hudson.

"More tresent now, John."

"Alright, alright." He pulled the card from its envelope and smiled. Hamish had not only decorated it, but had 'written' on the inside. "Did you write this, Hame?"

"Mhmm. Daddy not help."

"Can you please read it to me?"

"Mhmm." He snatched the card from John and said, "John, Happy Ubfday, Cake, chippies, tresent, park. Ham love John."

"That's beautiful, little man."

He pointed impatiently at the present and said, "Mhmm. Open now, ta."

"Hamish wrapped this himself."

"I can see that! Excellent work, Hamish, you're such a clever boy." He'd also drawn all over the paper, although it was not entirely clear what his pictures were of. "Can you tell me about these drawings, Hame?"

"No. Open tresent now."

"Oh, alright then." He pulled the paper away and his eyes widened when he saw the gifts hidden in the parcel. "Sherlock, you didn't have to…"

"It's fine, John. It's your birthday."

"Yeah… thank you so much."

"Look, John!"

"Hamish, settle down, please." Sherlock placed a calming hand at the small of his back in an effort to settle him.

John first picked up the blue mug, smiling as he pulled it from its box.

"Bus!" said Hamish, pointing at it to make sure John didn't miss it.

"Yes, there's a bus like yours."

"John?"

"Yes, Hame?"

"Ham sit ah you?"

"You can sit with me if you like, of course." The doctor pulled him from the table and into his lap, where Hamish grinned, much happier with this arrangement.

"More tresent, John!"

"Okay, Hame,"

"This! Tea!" Hamish grabbed the box of tea and waved it in front of John's face. "Daddy."

"Did Daddy choose this one?"

"Yes."

Hamish was very proud of the jam, and made John try each one on separate pieces of toast before he was satisfied. He also made him take off the jumper from Mrs. Hudson, and replace it with the navy blue one they'd given him.

Finally, John got to the red car at the bottom of the package and smiled.

"Car, John!"

"Yes, that's such a nice car, Hame."

"Not big."

"No, it's a little one, isn't it."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Hamish wanted to get you a car, but I told him we couldn't afford a real one, so he settled with a toy one."

"Good tresent, John?" Hamish looked earnestly up into the doctor's deep blue eyes, sticking his thumb in his mouth just in case the answer wasn't quite what he wanted.

For the first time in a long time, John felt some warm tears gather in the corners of his eyes. "Yes, Hame. They're the best presents I've ever gotten. You're such a beautiful little man." He held him tightly to his chest and kissed his forehead.

"Right then. Breakfast," said Sherlock, apparently uncomfortable with the displays of affection occurring on the other side of the table.

* * *

"Now, we're going out for lunch in a few hours, and then we're having a little… thing here from five o'clock. Just the usual people are coming, Molly, Lestrade, and I won't be surprised if my brother turns up."

"Oh, that's great. Thanks so much, you really didn't need…"

"I did. You've been so helpful and understanding with Hamish. It's been a difficult few months."

"But good. It's been a good few months."

"Yes. I suppose it has been." Sherlock grinned and said, "Oh, there's something else." He dashed off into his bedroom and returned a few minutes later, a large envelope clutched in his hands. He passed it to John and waited, shifting from foot to foot while the doctor eyed it suspiciously.

"What's this?"

"Open it. I hope you don't mind. We had discussed it, so I went ahead and… well you'll see."

He pulled the envelope open and cautiously pulled one of the slips of paper out. He grinned. "This is… the best birthday present I've ever gotten, Sherlock."

"Oh." He looked rather surprised. "Really?"

"Well, nobody's ever given me a son before," he laughed.

"Yes well. It's logical for us to have joint custody of him. If something happens to me, I wouldn't want for him to… well. And if you were to ever… move out… he needs a proper role model… to teach him about relationships and the like. Anyway, I'm glad you're happy with it. There's just a few forms in there which you'll need to sign, and then I can file it."

"Thank you, Sherlock."

* * *

"Sherlock, you're back again!" Eileen waddled to the front of the café to hug him, then John, then poor little Hamish, who was accidentally winded by the colossal woman.

"John ubfday!" he informed her.

"Yes, it's John's birthday isn't it. We're here for a special birthday lunch, Eileen."

She sat them down; Hamish was forced into a highchair, and sat frowning until Eileen brought him some crayons and paper.

"Are you boys ready to order?"

"Mhmm," said Hamish, pointing to the chicken nuggets and chips on the menu and saying, "Fish chippies!"

"Oh. Do you want the fish and chips, or the nuggets and chips?"

"Fish," he said, staring at her as if she had some sort of severe intellectual deficit.

"Right. And to drink?"

"Red!"

"No!" Sherlock intervened. "He'll have some apple juice, please. What do you say, Hamish?"

"Ta, lady."

* * *

"Chippies now, Daddy?" he whined, reaching for the lunch his father was withholding from him.

"Dites-moi la francais, et puis tu peux manger."

"Des frites, Daddy. Eat now?"

"Very well done, Hamish." He put the plate on the highchair's tray and Hamish grinned.

"Good, Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish. You're a very clever boy."

John squeezed a little tomato sauce on Hamish's chips and said, "When did you start teaching him French?"

"Only this week. We've done food and animals. I wanted to do colours but they still confuse him a little in English. The last thing I want is for him to be overloaded with information. If his mind is like mine, there's already far more data being noted and processed than is usual. I remember learning new things was often quite stressful, especially before I developed the mind palace. He's a little too young for that concept yet."

"What next, Daddy?" said Hamish through a mouthful of fish, waving his fork in his father's direction.

"Well, tonight we're having a little party at the flat."

"Ubstred?"

"Yes, Lestrade is coming."

"My?"

"I'm not sure about Mycroft."

"Oh." He frowned and shoved a chip in his mouth. "Alloons?"

"We can have balloons if you'd like."

"Yes. Alloons," he said decidedly, stabbing another fish finger with his fork.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson spent the afternoon preparing food for the party while the boys went to the park.

"John, what ubfday?"

They were sat in the sun, eating afternoon tea, and apparently Hamish decided that this was the time to ask the big questions.

"Oh, your birthday is the day that you were born. So, oh…"

"What born, John?"

"Um… Okay, so, when somebody decides to have a baby, they… well… they decide to have a baby, and then that baby grows in the lady's tummy… Do you want to help me out, Sherlock?"

The detective smirked. "You're doing fine."

John looked at Hamish's earnest little face, and continued. "Right, so the baby starts out very very small in the lady's tummy and then it grows and grows until it's big enough to come out. Then it comes out and…"

"How out?"

"Um… the lady goes to the hospital and the doctors help her… get the baby out."

"John baby out?"

"I've done it a couple of times, yeah. So anyway, when a baby is born means when it comes out of the lady's tummy, and that's your birthday."

Hamish took a bite of his banana and frowned. "Where Ham lady?"

Sherlock sighed and spoke up. "Your lady lives a long way away, Hamish."

"See lady?"

"No, Hamish. Sometimes, a lady just has a baby so that his Daddy can have a little boy to live with. And that's what happened with your lady. She let you grow in her tummy until you were big enough, and then when you were born, she gave you to me."

"No, Daddy." He shook his head and looked confused. "My."

"Oh. Yes, you were at that other place with Mycroft and the doctors first, weren't you."

"Mhmm."

"I didn't think you'd remember that."

"Why?"

Another sigh. "You were there because Mycroft decided that he wanted to make a very special little boy. So, he got your lady and me to make you, and then when you were born, you went to live there."

"But, Hamish, a little while later, Daddy and I decided that we loved you too much to have you there. So we brought you back to live with us."

"Oh."

"Is that all okay, little man?"

"Mhmm. Okay. Not see lady?"

"No, Hamish. Your lady's very very busy."

"Okay."

* * *

When they got back, Sherlock sent John down to Mrs. Hudson's while he and Hamish sorted out the flat. He was stood in the middle of the living room, blowing up balloons, while Hamish ran around, trailing a long line of streamer behind him.

"Is this enough balloons, Hamish?"

"No. More."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. More."

"Only five more, alright?"

"No. Ten, Daddy."

"No. Five."

* * *

"Ham get it!" he shouted when the doorbell, rang, toddling his way down the stairs, closely followed by John. He had a heated argument with the door handle which ended with him driving a bare foot into the door and crying.

"Are you hurt, little man?"

"Mhmm. Foot."

John picked him up and pulled the door open, revealing their first guest. "Look who's here, Hame."

"Ubstred!" His injury was completely forgotten as he was passed to Lestrade and carried up the stairs, all the way babbling about how it was John's birthday.

"You've got so much bigger since the last time I saw you, champ. How old is he now?" said Lestrade.

"Twenty months last week. He's a big boy, aren't you, Hame," John said as he passed Lestrade a beer.

"You boys should really start measuring him on the wall now he's standing up and all. You could use that little spot in the kitchen, next to the fridge." Mrs. Hudson bustled into the living room with a tray of crackers and dip.

"Alloon, Ubstred?" Hamish leaned forward until he was nearly dropped, before Lestrade caught on to the fact that he wanted to be put down.

"Yeah, sure, I'd love a balloon."

"Red one?" He dashed about the room, trying to find one suitable for the Detective-Inspector.

Mycroft didn't bother ringing the doorbell, he simply sauntered up the stairs and hovered in the doorway.

"My! Alloon for My? John ubfday ahday, My."

"Yes, I know." He was apparently in a foul mood.

"Oh. Alloon?" Hamish persisted, holding a blue balloon up to his uncle.

"No, thank you."

"Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted from his armchair.

"What?"

"Just take the bloody balloon, will you? Look at his face."

When Molly arrived, Hamish grabbed onto John's jeans, refusing to let go until he was safely in the doctor's hold with his blanket clutched in his little hand.

The blanket (his 'woobie', as he insisted on calling it, despite Sherlock's attempts at convincing him that it was a ridiculous name for such an item) had slowly become more and more of a comfort item, until it and Hamish were absolutely inseparable. One night, they hadn't been able to find it at bedtime and it had taken the two of them three hours to get him to sleep without it, only to find that it was hiding under the sofa. On the day John had decided to wash it, as it was filthy from being dragged around behind the toddler for months, Hamish spent the entire wash-and-dry cycle sitting in front of the machine, sobbing silently to himself and watching the woobie go round and round, ensuring that nothing happened to it. The week before John's birthday, Sherlock had accidentally torn a hole in the blanket while it had been perilously left on the table while he was experimenting. Hamish hadn't spoken to him for three days, even though Mrs. Hudson had the woobie fixed in ten minutes.

Molly was overdressed as usual, and appeared very excited to be meeting Hamish.

"Hame, this is Molly. She works with Daddy at the lab."

"Oh," he said, looking very suspiciously at her.

"Are you going to say hello?"

"No."

"Come on, Hame. Say, 'Hello, Molly'."

She walked a little closer to them and smiled warmly at him. "Hi, Hamish. It's nice to meet you. Your Daddy's told me all about you."

"Okay. Alloon?"

* * *

"I've got some news," said Molly over dinner.

"We know."

"Sherlock!" he received an elbow in the ribs and a glare from his flat mate. "What's your news, then, Molly?"

"Oh, well, I'm… uh… I'm pregnant."

And the room erupted with "Congratulations," and "That's wonderful," and "How exciting," and Sherlock rolling his eyes and huffing.

"John?" Hamish tapped his arm, smearing mashed potato on the sleeve of the doctor's jumper.

"Yes, Hame?"

"What?" he pointed at Molly, his eyebrows drawn together in a confused little frown.

"Molly's going to have a baby, Hamish."

"Baby?"

"Yes."

"Where baby?"

"It's growing in her tummy."

"Ham see?"

"Oh, you can't see it yet, it's too little. When it grows a bit more, Molly's tummy will get bigger and bigger and you'll be able to feel the baby in her tummy."

"Baby see Ham?"

"No, the baby won't be able to see you until it comes out of Molly's tummy. It can hear you now though, so you can go and talk to it, if you like."

"Yes," he said, starting to wrestle with the buckle on his booster seat.

John wiped the little boy's hands and face and helped him out of his seat. Hamish ran around the table to where Molly was sitting, pulling himself into her lap where he pressed his face against her stomach.

"Not see," he said. Apparently he hadn't believed John. He then lay down across her lap, his little legs hanging over the side of her chair, and began babbling away to the baby, telling it all about John's birthday, and all of their dinner guests, and something about Sherlock being bad.

He ended up taking quite a liking to Molly, and sat with her even after they relocated to the living room.

* * *

Getting Hamish to bed in the middle of the party was about as difficult as they'd expected. He was quite the little party animal and, despite the fact that he kept nodding off in Molly's lap, insisted that he was not tired. Then the excuses started.

"Bath, Daddy."

"No. You already had your bath when we got home from the park, remember?"

"Oh. Eat?"

"You just had dinner _and_ cake, you're not hungry."

"Oh. Nappy?"

"Yes, I'll change you right now before you go to bed."

"No! No, Daddy!" He held a small hand up in protest, and stood, thinking of another excuse. "Woobie."

"Your _blanket_ is right here." Sherlock was passed the woobie by his parenting assistant, who was trying his very hardest not to laugh at the sight of Sherlock and a mini-Sherlock in the midst of a Mexican standoff.

"Milk, Daddy."

"You want some milk?"

"Yes, milk."

"Fine. I'll just make it for you and you can drink it in bed."

"No! Not jahmies."

"I'm going to put you in your pajamas right now."

"No!"

Sherlock, tired of arguing, grabbed him around the waist and held him at arm's length while Hamish kicked and screamed.

"Hamish Watson Holmes, stop that right now. Are you going to say goodnight nicely to everybody, or are you going to be rude?"

He stopped kicking and frowned. "Nice."

"Alright, off you go then." Sherlock put him back on the ground and he made his way around the living room, saying goodnight to each of their guests and kissing their cheeks, whether it was wanted or not.

When he reached Molly he said, "Ni, Molly," climbing into her lap to kiss her cheek, before leaning down to her belly and saying "Ni, baby," with a little wave.

* * *

"Sherlock says you're doing this on your own."

Lestrade was helping Mrs. Hudson wash up, and Sherlock was at the top of the stairs, arguing with his brother.

"Yeah," she gave John a nervous smile.

"If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to come round, or call. And if it's a boy, we've got lots of hand-me-downs for him. Hamish has already grown out of so much of his stuff."

"He's so beautiful, John. He was an… experiment, wasn't he? That's what Sherlock said."

"One of Mycroft's. But not anymore."

"You're so good with him. What's… Sherlock like?"

"He's amazing, actually."

"No! I didn't mean…"

"No, it's fine, really. I totally understand why you'd think he wouldn't be so great. He loves Hamish more than anything in the world. He has his moments. You know. Those ones where I want to stab him with something. But he already had plenty of those moments. I'm used to them. He does his best and he loves him. That's all I'm worried about. If he forgets to buy nappies or takes him to Scotland Yard it's okay. I've just never seen him… care so much about something that wasn't The Work."

"It's all he talks about. 'Today Hamish learned to walk', 'Hamish said three new words yesterday'. He tells little anecdotes about him. He sits there at that bloody microscope and talks on all day about Hamish."

"I mean it, Molly. If you need _anything_, just to come and chat, I'm around a lot. And if you ever need some cheering up, Hamish is always here. Do you have a good obstetrician?"

"I was going to ask you about that, actually. Do you know anyone?"

"Do you have a GP?"

She shook her head. "I've never needed one."

"I'll tell you what. I'm working on Wednesday from nine until three. If you ring up tomorrow morning and make an appointment with me, I can be your GP and I'll give you a referral for an obstetrician."

"Thanks so much, John."

"Not a problem. I'll see if I can make Sherlock talk his brother into getting you a good hospital room and all that, too."

There was suddenly a moment of shouting out on the landing, which was quickly reduced to hushed hissing, followed by hurried footsteps down the stairs, the front door slamming, and a particularly unhappy Sherlock huffing his way into the living room and his armchair.

"Everything alright?"

An eye-roll, the meaning of which John was apparently expected to deduce. "Yes, fine." Another roll of his eyes. An irritated sigh from John had Molly very near laughing at the pair of them and they smiled.

* * *

After their guests had left, they weren't quite ready for the merriment to finish, so Sherlock lowered himself to watching some Doctor Who with his flat mate.

"I can't wait until Hamish is old enough to watch this with me."

"This programme is ludicrous," Sherlock drawled.

"It's a fantasy show, Sherlock; you have to suspend disbelief a little bit."

"A little bit?! It is completely ridiculous!"

John ignored him, and his eyes managed to stray to the knuckles of Sherlock's right hand. They were covered with dark purple bruising, and the skin had split a little at the base of his middle finger. At least a day old.

"Sherlock, what happened to your hand?"

"Oh, I had a little run-in with the father of Molly's child," he said, as if it was perfectly normal, not taking his eyes from the television.

"When?"

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Where?"

"Bart's."

"Are you okay?"

"It's just a little bruising, John."

"Is he okay?"

"He will be eventually, although I doubt he'll be impregnating anybody in the near future."

"What… I don't want to know. Is that what you and Mycroft were yelling about?"

"Yes, he's irritated that he has to get me off more assault charges." According to Sherlock's shrug and look of mild confusion, it was absolutely ridiculous that Mycroft should be irritated about such a thing. "The idiot deserved it."

John smiled and took another sip of birthday whiskey Sherlock had bought.

It had most definitely been a good few months.

**A/N: Sorry about the wait, this chapter ended up being way longer than I expected. I'd like to dedicate the chapter to MCRmy-saved-me, who has been waiting for it for a very long time. And I'd like to thank 13lue13erry who is responsible for Sherlock's present to John, and also some of the other little bits in this chapter. Thanks again for all the great feedback. New chapter will be up soon :)**


	22. A Storm

**Chapter 22 – A Storm**

"Rain, John!"

"Yes, it's raining very heavily, isn't it."

"Mhmm. Puddle?"

"Would you like to go and see the puddles?"

By way of an answer, Hamish jumped down from his spot on the windowsill, and started pulling on his Peppa Pig wellies. That conversation had been interesting.

_"Sherlock, why did you let him get those? They're pink."_

_"He liked them. They were the ones he wanted."_

_"Couldn't you have gotten ones in a different colour?"_

_"He wanted those ones. I don't see the issue, John."_

_"He's going to get teased."_

_"By who? He isn't even two. Are you saying you have a problem with your son wanting pink shoes? What is the world coming to, that a toddler can't buy a pair of wellies without being questioned by his own father."_

"You need your mac, matey, where is it?"

Eventually, John was standing at the top of the 221B steps, while Hamish ran through and jumped in the puddles that had gathered on the footpath outside the flat.

He ran around in his red beanie (knitted by Mrs. Hudson) pulled on over his curls, a policeman mackintosh, "like Ubstred", and his pink Peppa Pig wellies. Despite the raincoat, Hamish was completely soaked, but he was just about the happiest John had ever seen him.

The doctor panicked slightly when a particularly fancy looking woman walked past just as Hamish jumped in a rather deep puddle, splashing water onto the woman's coat.

"Hamish! I'm so sorry."

"Uh-oh. Sorry, lady," he said, sidling closer to John and grabbing onto his trouser leg.

"It's perfectly fine, my dears. It's lovely to see somebody enjoying this miserable weather."

* * *

Hamish found joy in almost everything. Thunderstorms, however, were not on his list of favourite things.

It started not long after he'd finished with the puddles. John had lit the fire, and was stripping off the boy's soaking wet clothes. He was rubbing his hair dry when they saw the first flash of lightening. Hamish immediately threw himself at the doctor, grabbing at his jumper, and burying his little face in John's neck, knowing what was coming. Sure enough, a few seconds later, the loud rumbling of the thunder sounded. Hamish gave a little whimper, and clutched tighter onto John.

"It's alright, Hame. It's just a thunderstorm. You're safe. It's all okay. Let's get you dressed. Do you want to put clothes on again, or just get into your pajamas?"

"Jahmies."

"Yeah, I think that's a good idea."

When they first had a storm, they'd been at a complete loss as to how to calm the boy. Mrs. Hudson was out, and Hamish was absolutely hysterical, and remained so for the duration of the storm. They'd eventually discovered that the best way to keep him relaxed was to fairly well spoil him. He couldn't be distracted, so the most successful treatment was to at least make him happy, allowing him to eat whatever he wanted, wear whatever he wanted, and do whatever he wanted.

"Which ones, Hame?"

John held up three onesies, one with trains, one with Elmo, and one with sheep.

"Sheepies."

* * *

"Do you want me to call Daddy and he can come home?"

"No. John good."

"Are you sure, little man?"

"Yes."

"What do you want to do?"

"Draw."

So, they drew. Hamish had to sit on John's lap, and would grab onto him in a panic every single time there was a thunderclap.

* * *

When Sherlock got home, John was lying on the sofa with Hamish on his chest, thumb in his mouth, and both in their pajamas just after lunchtime. They were watching Postman Pat reruns, the woobie draped across Hamish's back. The remnants of an ice cream and cake lunch were scattered around the flat, as well as an odd array of books, toys, and household items, that John had apparently been using to try and distract him.

"'Lo, Daddy."

"Good afternoon, Hamish."

"Bad rain," he said with a little frown, not bothering to lift his head from John's chest.

"Yes, there was a thunderstorm, wasn't there?"

"Mhmm."

"Were you alright?"

"Mhmm. John better."

"Did you finish the case?" said, John, flicking off the television, and standing up, Hamish still in his arms.

"It took much longer than expected without my blogger, but yes, I did eventually finish."

"Cakey, Daddy?"

"Yeah, we made a cake, Sherlock, did you want some?"

"I suppose I'll have a little."

* * *

Half an hour after they'd put Hamish to bed, another storm hit, and they turned the television up to an almost ridiculous volume, in the hopes that, should Hamish wake up, he would think that all of the noise was coming from the living room.

It didn't work.

"Daddy?"

He appeared next to Sherlock's armchair, thumb in mouth, blanket clutched tightly in his hand, little tears beginning to form in the corners of his eyes.

"Oh, Hamish, it's alright. There's nothing to be frightened about."

"Yucky noise, Daddy."

"I know. It's alright." He pulled him up to sit on his lap and held him closely against his chest. "You need to go back to sleep, Hamish. I'll put you in my bed, how about that?"

"Okay. Daddy come?"

"I'll come to bed later. I'll help you go back to sleep now, and if you wake up again I'll be there."

"Okay."

"Say goodnight to John."

"Ni, John."

And Sherlock carried Hamish to their bedroom, laid down on the bed with him, and ran a finger from the top of his forehead, between his eyebrows, and down to the tip of his nose, over and over again, quietly humming, until the little boy fell asleep.

At least until the thunder sounded again. His eyes snapped open, he grabbed onto the collar of Sherlock's shirt, and instantly started crying.

"Hamish, it's alright. You need to settle. It isn't frightening, I promise. You're going to be fine." He drew him close to his chest and, gently rocking from side-to-side, made his way back out to the living room.

"No luck?"

"Obviously."

Another crash rumbled down from the skies and Hamish jumped. "Why, Daddy?"

"It's just thunder, Hamish, it will be over soon."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Thunder is the just noise that lightening makes."

"Like how a cow says 'moo', Hame."

"Oh. Why?"

"A lightning bolt is lots and lots of energy at once, and that energy makes the light that you see in the sky, and it also makes a lot of heat, so it's very hot, and it makes the big noise that we call thunder."

"Okay."

"So there's nothing to be frightened about."

"Just moo."

"Yes, Hamish. It's just moo."

**A/N: Surprise chapter! It isn't often that it gets updated this quick. This chapter was inspired by the lovely little work 'They Grow Up So Fast' over on AO3 by IveJustGotOne.**

**I'd just like to briefly address the Johnlock issue as I've spoken to a number of people personally about this but I don't think I've ever made a formal... announcement, if you will. At the moment, as is probably clear by the introduction of Mary into the story, I'm not planning on making this a Johnlock story. I've written out a rather extensive explanation of why over on the tumblr I have for my writing which is at jayofthebarricade dot tumblr dot com. If you would like to read a parentlock story that's Johnlock as well, I would be more than happy to recommend some :)**

**Also, I've been asked a couple of times if Sherlock's going to be in a relationship in this story and at the moment I'm thinking not. Simply because it's not really in the plan right now.**

**Okay, I think that's all. Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter :)**


	23. Mary

**Chapter 23 – Mary **

Since their chance meeting, John and Mary had been on seven reasonably successful dates, and one that had only been a minor disaster; although it wasn't really John's fault that they'd been waiting to cross the road when a date-ruining pedestrian decided to not wait and was hit by a cab. As the only doctor in the vicinity, John had to tend to them, so Mary spent the entirety of their outing watching her boyfriend stem the blood flow from a Londoner's skull. It was rather impressive of John to have not screwed anything up by this point; especially considering his past dating record. Since about their third date, Mary had made sure to mention a number of times that she would very much like to meet the infamous Sherlock and Hamish. The poor long-suffering doctor eventually agreed, hoping that Hamish's high volume of endearing qualities would distract Mary from Sherlock's almost complete lack of them.

"Sherlock, please please please don't deduce her. Apart from that, you can totally be yourself, but please don't do that to me."

The detective slammed his laptop shut, looking genuinely offended. "What makes you think I'd do such a thing?"

"You do it to every single one of my girlfriends, and I just… please don't do it to this one."

"Fine."

"Now, Hamish. When Mary is over, you'll have to go to bed before she goes home, do you understand?"

"Mhmm."

"Okay, so you need to be good when it's bedtime."

"Okay."

* * *

John had to coax Sherlock out of his dressing gown and into something "more presentable", which was interpreted by the detective as full formal dress, minus a tie. Hamish then insisted that he had to be dressed up too. A pair of black trousers and a baby blue dress shirt.

At 6:30 on the dot, the doorbell rang, resulting in an excited squeak from Hamish, a nervous sigh from John, and an eye-roll from Sherlock.

"Ham get it."

"No, mate, I've got it."

He stomped a foot and glared at John. "No. Ham get it."

"Hamish, don't be rude. You can come with me."

They slowly made their way down the stairs and stood in the entryway. John pulled the door open and the toddler grabbed onto the leg of his trousers, now apparently not-so-keen on their guest.

"Hey, Mary, how are you? This is Hamish," he said, pulling Hamish into his hold.

"Hello, Hamish, love." She smiled sweetly and he looked to John for confirmation, before returning her smile.

"'Lo, lady."

"This is Mary, Hame. You know."

"Yes. Mary."

"Let's get upstairs shall we? Sherlock seems to be in a fairly decent mood but that could change."

She touched a calming hand to his shoulder and smiled. "John, it's fine. You don't need to keep warning me about him."

"He might just ignore you. That would probably be the best for everyone, to be honest."

"John," she smiled. "It's okay. I get that he's difficult and unusual. But he's really important to you, so I want to meet him."

"I just… Hey, Hamish, do you want to go upstairs and tell Daddy that Mary's here?"

"Okay, John." He slowly made his little way up the stairs and John started speaking in a hushed tone.

"Mary, I really really like you… really a lot. He… Sherlock has been the reason behind every single break-up I've had since I met him. I just… I don't want him to screw this one up for me."

"Love, I'm not going to leave you because of your flat mate. I really want this to work out too. Okay?"

* * *

Sherlock stood when the pair reached the top of the stairs, holding his hand out for Mary to shake.

"Good evening. Sherlock Holmes." He looked her up-and-down as she shook his hand.

"How are you, Sherlock? I've heard so much about you and your little boy."

"Yes, fine. And how is it living so close to the West End?"

"Sherlock!"

"John," another calming hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. It's lovely, thank you, Sherlock. And how's your work been? Busy lately?"

He scoffed. "No. The only crimes people are bothering to commit at the moment are completely dull. I haven't had a good murder in months."

"Oh my God. Sherlock, do you know that isn't a normal thing to say. Hamish!" He had climbed up onto the counter and was sitting, stirring the gravy, a thumb in his mouth while he kicked his legs back and forth. John pulled the wooden spoon from his little hand and placed him safely back on the ground. "Mate, it's hot, you know that."

"Helping."

"Oh, you were helping. Okay, well thank you very much, but I don't like for you to be near the stove like that, okay? You could hurt yourself. Why don't you show Mary your trains?"

* * *

"So, Sherlock, how old is Hamish?"

John had somehow managed to talk Sherlock into eating dinner. He'd even sat at the table, and was staring at his mostly untouched dinner, trying not to do anything that would irritate John. "Twenty months," he said, picking all of the bits of food that had fallen off of Hamish's fork and onto the table and his lap, placing them back on his plate.

"And how long's he been living here for?"

"Four months."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"More meat?" he pointed past the still-rather-high pile of vegetables sitting on his plate, to the middle of the table where the rest of the roast sat.

"You need to eat some more vegetables before you can have any more meat."

"Oh. More bread?"

"Only if you eat some more vegetables."

"How more, Daddy?"

"Three pieces of carrot, five peas, five pieces of corn, two beans, and three pieces of potato. Then you can have more meat."

He gave a little huff and folded his arms, before being given a stern look by his father. "Okay, Daddy. Two carrot?"

"No, three pieces of carrot."

"No, two."

"Hamish, if you keep arguing with me, you won't be getting any more meat at all."

"Oh. Three carrot?"

"Yes, Hamish. Three pieces of carrot. Quickly now or it will be cold."

He turned back to face Mary and found her staring at them, an affectionate little smile across her face.

"What?" he said, in the rudest voice he'd used since at least the day before.

"Sherlock!" John fought the urge to throw his fork across the table at the detective.

"Sorry, Sherlock, it was just… You're so good with him. I… it must have been really hard… to get settled."

"It was difficult at the beginning, especially for Hamish. But he's incredibly resilient. Once we'd gotten used to having somebody so small around, we were able to work out a routine," he said, picking a pea out of Hamish's hair. "We sorted out how to deal with him, what his needs are, it was fine."

John gave Mary an impressed smile, surprised she'd been able to crack his flat mate so quickly.

"So, Sherlock, I hear you're quite the detective. Can you deduce me?"

Sherlock stiffened and John's eyes widened. The detective cleared his throat. "I… John said I'm not allowed to."

"It's okay. It's not like you're going to tell me something I don't know already."

He shook his head. "Forgive me, but… John asked me not to, and I'm going to respect that."

"Five pea, Daddy?"

"Yes. Five peas, Hamish."

* * *

"Hamish, are you actually still hungry?"

"Yes, Daddy. More cakey ta."

"Alright, you can have half a piece and that's it."

"Okay, Daddy. Mary more cakey?" he offered, pointing a very sticky-looking hand towards the dessert.

"No, thank you, darling. I've had more than enough cake for one night."

Hamish gasped and looked at John. "Draw, John!"

"Oh, yes, I forgot. Hamish drew you something, let me just grab it."

John returned with a piece of paper and moved to hand it to their guest.

"No, John! Ham do it!"

"Oh, sorry, little man."

Hamish snatched the drawing from his hand and thrust it in Mary's direction. She smiled and carefully took it from him.

"Daddy, John, Ham," he said, pointing at the picture.

"Oh, I see. That's beautiful, Hamish. Thank you so much."

"Cow," he added, pointing to a black and white circle in the corner of the page.

"Right, it's a cow, how lovely. So this tall one's Daddy?"

"Mhmm."

"And this is John?"

"Mhmm."

"And this little one's you?"

"Yes. And cow."

"Yes, and the cow."

"Daddy, out now?" He wriggled in his seat until Sherlock undid the buckle and pulled him out, wiping him down and unbuttoning his little shirt.

"It's bath time now, Hamish."

His face lit up and he grinned. "Mary see bath?"

"Oh, I'd love to see the bath."

"Ham show," he said, grabbing her hand and dragging her to the bathroom. When they were joined a few minutes later by John and Sherlock, Hamish was giving her a tour. "This buddles," he was saying. He'd climbed into the empty bath to give a demonstration of the bubble machine, but couldn't quite work out how to switch it on. "John, make buddles go, ta."

"I'll put it on once you're in there, okay? Now can you please hop out so I can get it going?"

"Hamish," Sherlock said, pulling off his son's singlet and trousers. "Can you say 'please' to John? Say 'please make the bubbles go, John.' It's more polite, that's all."

"Please buddles go, John?"

"Good boy."

* * *

"One story, Hamish. Then bedtime."

He frowned. "Two, Daddy? Please."

"No, Hamish, it's already well past your bedtime. You're very very tired. You can have one story and that's it."

"Mary read it, Daddy?"

"You'll have to ask her."

So, Mary read 'Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day', and Hamish fell asleep just before the end, his head resting against her shoulder, a little hand wrapped around her necklace.

"I'll take him," Sherlock said, standing to take him from Mary.

"It's alright, I'll put him to bed." She stood, Hamish in arms, and Sherlock looked a little alarmed. "Any instructions for me, Mr. Holmes?"

"He sleeps on his stomach. He doesn't have a dummy, but make sure his blanket's in his cot. It's the blue… well-loved one. You'll know it when you see it."

"Anything else?"

"No, that's all."

* * *

Mary all-but skipped from the bedroom a few minutes later, looking as if she was in the midst of the most enjoyable night of her life. She unceremoniously slumped herself onto the sofa next to John.

"Where's Sherlock?"

He slung an arm over her shoulders and pulled her closer. "Hiding in my room. He gets a bit… he's just so introverted that he can only cope with so much socialization before he completely crashes. As long as he doesn't blow anything up in there I don't mind. Did Hamish go down okay?"

"He didn't even wake up. What a beautiful little boy, John."

"He's good value."

"Poor old Sherlock's a funny one, isn't he?"

John smiled. "I warned you."

"You really love them, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"Well… everyone loves Hamish."

"And Sherlock? Does everyone love Sherlock? Or are you the only one?"

"I'm one of the few. He's had some… stuff… you know."

"We've all had stuff, John. We just need people to help us out of our stuff, and then we're okay again."

"Exactly, but… he doesn't have a lot of … people."

"He does now."

They weren't given any warning before six feet of baritone spoke from the doorway. "I do not appreciate being spoken about behind my back," he informed them. "Is Hamish alright?"

"Fast asleep."

* * *

"Thanks so much for having me over, Sherlock," Mary said as she pulled on her coat and was escorted to a cab.

"Goodnight, Mary."

She pulled John into a hug and whispered, "Thank you for letting me meet them. I know it was a big thing for you. I'll see you Friday."

John smiled and nodded. As she was about to step into the taxi, he grabbed her arm. "I love you, Mary. Was that too soon?"

"No," she said quickly, dispelling his fear. "I love you too." She caught Sherlock rolling his eyes and laughed. "See you soon, Sherlock!"

* * *

John placed a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of where Sherlock was sat on the sofa, updating Hamish's file for about the fortieth time that week.

"What are you doing?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, John."

"I just don't know what you could possibly be adding to that, you did it this morning."

"And since this morning, our son has learnt and performed hundreds of new things which you apparently did not notice."

"Like what?"

"Like remembering more than four things at once."

"When did he do that?"

"God, you are dense. At dinner. He remembered the quantities of vegetables I told him to eat. Five separate items, each with its own number attached. He also said 'please' unprompted for the first time. And he managed to fall asleep without the blanket. And all of that has only happened since seven this evening."

"Okay you win."

"I always win."

He grinned. "No you don't."

"She's friendly," Sherlock said, as if it were Mary's only good quality.

"You liked her then?"

A pause. "More than usual."

"Thanks so much for tonight, Sherlock. I know this sort of thing's really hard for you. I know you were uncomfortable, but… I think this one's serious, so she needed to meet you both. Thank you for not…"

"Being myself?" he supplied, frowning. "Yes, you're very welcome." Sarcastic. "Any time at all you wish for me to put on a charade to impress one of your love interests, be sure to let me know."

"Sherlock, I didn't say not to be yourself, I just asked you not to deduce her because it makes people really uncomfortable. I wanted her to get to know you, the real you. And she wanted to meet you, and she really liked you. And I can't tell you how much I appreciate you not pulling her apart like that."

"You're welcome, I suppose. Has she told you about her ex-fiancé?"

"Yes, she has."

"Did she tell you that she left him in a foreign country when she discovered he had money trouble and returned to the United Kingdom to seek better prospects?"

"He died, Sherlock. They were in a remote part of India, he contracted a rare disease and there weren't any doctors or hospitals so he died. It was five years ago. I am the first person she's dated since."

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'."

"I see that you're rather protective of her, John," Sherlock said, as if it were a groundbreaking discovery.

"Well deduced." Luckily 221B was more than used to this much sarcasm in such a small space of time or the walls may have caved in. "Of course I'm protective of her you complete git, she's my girlfriend, and she's been through…"

"Shut up!" Sherlock suddenly leant forward in his seat and John nearly hit him.

"Sherlock!"

"Shush, John!"

The doctor also leant forward, his eyebrows knit together while he attempted to work out why exactly he had to 'shut up'.

Eventually, he heard a little whimper come from Sherlock and Hamish's bedroom, following by an "Uh-oh," and, "Woobie? Woobie where are you?" Then, there were some soft bumping noises, a few little grunts, and a considerable thump as Hamish reached the floor. Finally he pattered into the living room looking absolutely tragic, a thumb in his mouth and his eyes filled with tears.

"Daddy?"

Sherlock stood up, already ushering the toddler back to bed. "Hamish, why are you up?"

"Where is woobie?"

"Isn't it in your bed?"

"No." He stuck his bottom lip out and it began to wobble.

"Don't worry, Hamish. We'll find it."

He picked him up and strolled into the bedroom, flicking the light on as he entered. "Light!"

"Yes, Hamish, it's the light, well done."

"Like light, Daddy."

"Oh, you like it do you?"

"Yes. Woobie now please."

Sherlock stepped over to the cot and it was instantly clear that the woobie wasn't in there. Hamish whimpered.

"It's alright, settle down, it's probably just fallen down the side. Why don't you hop down and have a look under your bed." He placed him on the ground and Hamish dropped to his stomach, looking under the cot, and giving an excited squeal.

"Woobie!"

"Is it there?"

"Mhmm. Ham get it." He wriggled under the cot and emerged a few moments later with the woobie and a triumphant grin. He bumped his head on the way back out but it was brushed off with a little "Oof, ouchie," and then he lifted his arms up to be put back to bed. "Ni, Daddy."

"Goodnight, Hamish."

"Love you!"

"I love you too, Hamish. Go to sleep now."

**A/N: Thanks again for all of the lovely reviews. If you've revisited some of the very early chapters you may have noticed that I've started to re-edit them, cutting the author's notes, fixing up typos, and making some ****_slight_**** changes. Also, there was a little scene I cut from this chapter because I didn't think it was quite amusing enough to leave in but if you want, I'll upload it to my Tumblr (jayofthebarricade dot tumblr dot com) so you can read it. Thanks also to those of you who've followed me on Tumblr over the last week or so. It is one of my three blogs so it can be quite hard to keep up with ****_but_**** I will do my best to keep some stuff going up on there for you guys. Finally, if you ever have any prompts or suggestions I am more than happy to at the very least take a look at them. You can leave them in a review here, or you could send it to me on Tumblr. Either way, they are very much appreciated. Hope you guys have a great rest of your weeks!**


	24. Terrible Twos

**Chapter 24 – Terrible Twos**

The day Hamish learned the word 'mine', everything in the flat suddenly belonged to him.

"No, Daddy. Mine."

"John! Mine!"

"Not for Daddy. Mine!"

"No! Mine!"

"Not touch, Daddy! Mine!"

"John, stop! It mine."

The television, the toaster, of course the jam, Mrs. Hudson, the bathroom door, John's shoes, Sherlock's riding crop (how he'd even found it was a mystery to his flat mates), the skull, Sherlock's nicotine patches, every plate in the flat (they'd been eating everything out of bowls for a week to avoid a tantrum), Sherlock's purple shirt, Sherlock's pillow, the toilet, and the hat stand at the bottom of the stairs, to name a few.

He had also claimed ownership of both John and Sherlock, and had moments where anybody that was not Hamish was forbidden from speaking to them. One morning Mrs. Hudson had popped by to ask Sherlock about the rent when Hamish stopped her at the door and said, "No, Na. Not see Daddy ahday. Daddy mine. Ta. Bye-bye," and closed the door.

They'd given up telling him he needed to share as it didn't work, and wasn't worth the shouting that followed. It took Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Mycroft mentioning the behaviour a number of times each before they decided to finally deal with the issue.

"Hamish."

He was wandering around the flat, pushing his miniature shopping trolley Mycroft had bought him, filling it up with various, seemingly random items, humming quietly to himself.

"John?" he said, grabbing the television remote from the coffee table and placing it in his trolley.

"What are you doing?"

"Mine," he said, pointing at his little collection.

"But they're not all yours, are they?"

"Yes. Mine."

"The skull isn't yours. It's Daddy's. And that's my pajama shirt. And… is that Mrs. Hudson's spoon?"

"Mine," he said, a little more forcefully, frowning at the doctor.

"Hamish," Sherlock looked up from his microscope as he spoke, "you simply cannot go around taking other people's belongings and claiming them as your own. And you need to share. John and I share our things with you."

"No! Not share."

Sherlock stood and made his way into the living room. "Hamish, there will be no shouting. I want you to pack all of those things away now, please."

"No!"

"Hamish Watson Holmes, you shall do what I say, and you are not to shout at me."

"No! Not pack away, Daddy! Mine!"

"I'm going to count to three, and if you don't start to put those things back where you found them, you will have to sit on the naughty step. One…"

Hamish stood his ground and glared at his father.

"Two…"

"No! Not step!" he shouted, not moving from his spot, frown firmly in place.

"I'm nearly at three Hamish, are you going to stop being silly?"

"No!"

"Three. Right, off to the naughty step we go."

He grabbed him under the arms and, ignoring the child's wailing, carried him to the naughty step, sitting him on it and kneeling in front of him.

"Now, Hamish, you are here because… Do not hit me, young man!"

Hamish had begun wildly swinging his fists in Sherlock's direction and had somehow managed to punch him square in the nose.

"We do not hit in this house, do you understand me?" He was given a glare and a pout by way of a response, so simply continued, the toddler's hands held tightly between his own to prevent any further onslaught. "You are here because you did not do as I asked, Hamish. You know the rules. If we ask you to do something, you are to do it. You are not to shout, and you are not to hit. You are going to sit here for two minutes."

"No, Daddy! No!"

Just as Sherlock let go of him, Hamish threw a small foot in his direction, kicking him in the shin while he whined.

"Hamish! What did I just say to you?"

Another frown. "Not hit."

"Exactly, we do not hit each other in this house. I know that you understand. You need to settle down. Two minutes."

At the minute-and-a-half mark, Lestrade waltzed in the front door and up the stairs.

"Ubstred!" he shifted, and looked for a moment as if he was going to stand.

"Do not even think about moving, Hamish. Your time is not up. Good afternoon, Lestrade, do you have a case for me? We'll be another twenty seconds."

Sherlock stood, staring at his watch for another twenty seconds and then knelt in front of his son.

"Now, Hamish. You know why you had to have a time out. Thank you very much for sitting here for the whole time. I need you to apologize to me for being rude and for hitting me, and the you need to apologize to John for not sharing, do you understand?"

"Mhmm. Sorry, Daddy."

"That's alright. Off you go now."

* * *

Sherlock was halfway through hurriedly pulling his coat on and asking Mrs. Hudson to watch Hamish when the toddler decided it was time to conduct an experiment which involved testing the flushability of various items. They were not alerted to his activities until he came into the living room and said. "Daddy phone stuck." His sleeves were completely soaked and he'd dripped a lovely trail of water all the way from the bathroom.

"Where is my phone stuck, Hamish?"

"Toilet," he said, his eyes glinting with mischief.

"Why is my phone in the toilet, Hamish?" he hissed through his teeth.

"Ex… expreriment."

"Four syllables!" said Lestrade, before being silenced by a glare from Sherlock.

"What else is in the toilet, Hamish?"

"Lots things!" he said, proudly. "Daddy see?"

"I would love to see it." He followed him into the bathroom and groaned. "Hamish, is that John's jumper?"

"No. Mine."

"No it is not yours. It is John's. That was very naughty, Hamish. You cannot take other people's things without asking them. And you must not put things in water, it breaks them. My phone won't work anymore now; I'll have to get a new one. You know what the rules are, Hamish, and yet you continually break them. If you break one more rule today, there will be no story before bed tonight, do you understand?"

"Okay, Daddy."

"Are you going to apologize?"

"Sorry, Daddy."

"And to John."

* * *

"Looks like you guys have been having a bit of a week," said Lestrade, looking around the flat while Sherlock changed Hamish and John tried to decide whether his jumper could be rescued, and whether he really wanted it to be rescued following its visit to the s-bend.

221B was never particularly tidy, but it was usually quite obvious when it had been a bit of a rough week for the boys. There would be multiple piles of both clean and dirty washing, the dishwasher would be full and dirty, and the sink piled high with things they couldn't fit in the dishwasher. Sherlock and Hamish both normally stayed in their pyjamas all day, and most nights they had takeaway dinner. John would look even more tired than normal, and Sherlock would look as if he hadn't eaten or slept for at least a week. Prior to this particular week, they and their flat had only looked this bad when Hamish was very sick.

"He's hit the 'terrible twos'." John sighed, boiling the kettle for about the thirtieth time that day.

"But he isn't two for another…"

"Don't remind me. He's just… all of a sudden become the most difficult person I have ever lived with and that is seriously saying something."

Hamish ran out from the bedroom and grabbed Lestrade's hand. "Ubstred play now?"

"I can play for a little minute but then I have to go back to work, okay?"

"No! Not okay."

"Hamish, that's very rude, you need to settle down. Sherlock, do you really think we should leave him with Mrs. Hudson when he's in this sort of mood?"

Sherlock groaned and shot John a glare. "I haven't had a case in _weeks_, John!"

"And your son is currently being a complete and total nightmare. You can't just fob him off to our landlady because you want to go on this case. I'll stay here with him and you can go."

"No, John. I need you."

"Well, too bad. I'm not leaving him with Mrs. Hudson. Hamish! Get down from there! How did you even get up there?" John quickly removed him from the mantelpiece where he was quite happily sitting, talking to the skull.

"Hamish, did you do that?" he said, in the sternest voice he'd ever used on the toddler, pointing to an… artwork... which had appeared on the kitchen wall.

"Mhmm," he said proudly. "Draw."

"Hamish. We only draw on paper, you know that. You never draw on the walls, or on the floors, or on anything else that is not paper. Do you understand?"

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh'. Now this afternoon while Daddy's at work, you're going to help me clean this off, alright?"

"Okay."

"You've been very naughty today, Hamish, and I'm not happy, and neither is Daddy."

"Oh," he said, looking at the ground. "Sorry, John."

"It's alright. You just need to try your best to be good for us, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

Later that afternoon, Sherlock was out, John and Hamish had cleaned the crayon off the walls, and were now sat in the living room, John writing up a blog post, and Hamish doing a jigsaw puzzle.

"John?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Go ah park now?"

"I'm sorry, mate, but it's raining. We can't go to the park today. Maybe tomorrow."

Hamish huffed and tipped the half-finished puzzle onto the floor, before walking over to the block tower they'd built earlier and kicking it over.

"Hamish, why are you doing that?"

"Bored," he said with a frown.

"Oh my God, please. You're bored?"

"Mhmm. Dull," he said, pointing at his toys.

"Where did you learn that word?"

"Daddy."

"What a surprise. Well, what do you want to do?"

"Park."

"Nope. It's too wet for the park."

"Shops?"

"Yeah, I guess we could go and have a look at the shops. You'll need your wellies and your raincoat, and you'll need to be good. Got it?"

"Mhmm. Got it."

* * *

"John? Help please?"

He hopped from the bedroom, holding one wellie in his hand, the other one rammed halfway onto his foot.

"Let's see." John sat on the floor and pulled him into his lap, trying to pull the wellie all the way onto his little foot, with no success. "I think that your feet have grown, Hame."

"Uh-oh."

"It's alright. We'll just have to get you some new shoes. Go and grab your brown boots for me, and we'll see if we can get them on."

* * *

Half an hour later, they'd finally gotten out the door, Hamish wearing his brown boots and raincoat.

"Car, John?"

"No, we're getting the train, okay?"

This was apparently no quite what Hamish had in mind. He sat himself in the middle of a puddle and started screaming. Hamish was always up for a good temper tantrum, but this was perhaps the most effort he'd ever put into one.

"Fine," John said, beginning to walk away. "I'll go to the shop by myself."

"No!" He rolled over onto his stomach and started beating his fists on the ground.

"Hamish, stop that right now!"

John let him lie in the puddle crying until he'd calmed down. Then he carefully stood him up, and held his little face between his hands.

"Now, look at that, Hame. You're all wet. That was silly, wasn't it. We're going to have to go home and get cleaned up now, alright? Are you all calmed down?"

"Mhmm. Okay now."

"Okay, off we go and get changed. Again."

This would be Hamish's fourth change of clothes since that morning. The first due to a nappy leakage incident, the second, when he got the flour out of the cupboard, tipped it all over the kitchen floor, added milk, and then sat in it, and the most recent was when Sherlock changed him after the toilet experiment.

"Shops?"

"No. No more shops today. By the time we get you changed and leave again, they'll be closed."

* * *

It went about the same way when John had to work, especially if it was a full-day shift. He got home one afternoon to find the flat far and beyond even its normal state of disarray.

Sherlock was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling while Hamish scanned his 'shopping' through the toy checkout.

"John!" Hamish shouted.

"John," Sherlock all but whimpered.

"Hello, gents, how was your day?"

"Good!"

"Good God."

"Sherlock, do you mind if I get changed, and then I promise you can have a break."

"Please be quick."

* * *

"What are we going to do, John? He isn't even two yet."

"He'll grow out of it, Sherlock. I'm sure he will. Maybe he's tired or… I don't know, maybe he's having a growth spurt or something. His feet have grown. Maybe he's hungry or a bit unwell, or…"

"Or maybe he's just a brat."

"He isn't a brat, Sherlock."

"Well he is doing a fabulous impersonation of one. I lost him three times in Hamley's this morning, and none of them were my fault. He's developed this… disappearing act that he only pulls on me when we're out."

"Maybe we should try a sticker chart."

Sherlock sat up and looked at him as if it was the most ludicrous idea he'd ever heard. "A what?"

"A sticker chart. You know. Every time he does something good he gets a sticker, and…"

"Well he won't be getting any stickers then."

"And if he does something bad, we take one off. When he gets… I don't know… ten stickers, he gets a prize."

"That is both manipulation _and _bribery, John."

"Well we can't keep living like this, one of us is going to properly lose it at him."

"I suppose it could work. We'll trial it tomorrow."

**A/N: Hope you guys liked this chapter. Thanks again for all of the lovely reviews, etc. Also, thanks for helping me hit 100 favourites over the week. Hope you have a great weekend!**


	25. Scotland Yard

**Chapter 25 – Scotland Yard**

"Sherlock can you come in?"

"It's Tuesday, Lestrade, you know what that means." Sherlock was simultaneously on the phone with Lestrade and battling his toddler, who was very eager to have a word with the Detective-Inspector himself.

"What does it mean?"

"John's at work and Mrs. Hudson's out. I have Hamish. No, I can't come in. Hamish, will you let go of my arm, I am trying to make a phone call."

"No! Ubstred!"

"Can you bring him?"

"To a crime scene?" Hamish was tugging at the pocket of his father's trousers and jumping up and down in an attempt to gain his attention.

"No, no, no, Sherlock, there's no crime scene, I thought I said that. He was murdered at the local primary school; we had to clear it all out really quickly. All the evidence is here at the Yard."

"Oh. Well in that case, yes I can come. But I'll have Hamish with me."

"Not a problem, see you in a bit."

Sherlock hung up and looked first at himself, then at his son, then around the flat. Despite the fact that it was almost three in the afternoon, they were both still in their pajamas. The aftermath of breakfast, morning tea, and lunch was scattered across the living room and kitchen, and Hamish's toys were littered throughout the flat and down the stairs.

"Hamish, it's lucky you had an early nap today because you're coming to work with me. Now, we need to get you dressed."

"Ubstred there?"

"Yes, Lestrade will be there."

"John too?"

"No, John's at his other work today." He carried him into their bedroom and dressed himself first while he continued answering Hamish's questions.

"Where John work?"

"At the surgery, remember?"

"Mhmm. What John does?"

"You know what John does, he's a doctor."

"Make better?"

"Yes, that's right, he makes people better."

"Ham better."

"Yes, John makes you better when you're sick. Which shirt would you like to wear today, Hamish?"

He held up each of Hamish's t-shirts one-by-one, most of which were given a "No," or a "Bad," until finally he held up the Postman Pat shirt John had bought the week before.

"Yes! Pat!"

"Excellent."

"Daddy?" he asked as Sherlock was pulling his tiny jeans on.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Ubstred Pat?"

"No, Hamish, DI Lestrade is not Postman Pat."

"No. Ubstred watch Pat?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask him."

"Walk, Daddy?"

"No, we're getting a cab. It's too far to walk."

"No shoes?" he asked hopefully.

"You'll have to put shoes on because we'll need to walk while we're at Scotland Yard, alright?"

"Okay."

"Good boy. Which ones would you like to wear?"

Hamish picked our his brown pull-on boots with a set of Thomas the Tank Engine socks and, once he'd been bundled up in a coat and had a blue beanie wrenched on over his curls, they were ready to leave.

"Daddy, stop!" Hamish said as they started walking down the stairs.

"What is it?" The toddler ran back into the flat and returned a minute later with his Bob the Builder backpack. "Oh, of course. One minute, Hamish, just let me pack it."

"Okay, Daddy."

Sherlock dashed about the flat packing nappies, wipes, a change of clothes, some first aid supplies, afternoon tea, a couple of books and some toys for Hamish to play with.

"I'm sorry, I completely forgot that I'd need to bring things for you."

"It okay, Daddy."

Hamish insisted on walking down the stairs so it took about four times as long as usual, but they eventually reached the bottom and were soon standing on Baker Street hailing a cab. He was rather thrilled by the prospect of going in a car, having only ever travelled in one once before, and spent the entire trip staring wide-eyed out of the window and holding Sherlock's hand in excitement.

When they reached the Yard, Hamish, once again, insisted on walking so they meandered into the building and up to Lestrade's floor. Once there, Hamish got a little overwhelmed by the people and noise and grabbed desperately onto his father's hand. "Daddy, up?"

Sherlock pulled him into his arms and continued walking to Lestrade's office.

"Hey, Freak!" He wheeled around to find Sally Donovan, looking at them with a bemused expression. "Who's the kid?"

"Ham," Hamish introduced himself.

"This is Hamish. He's my son."

She raised her eyebrows and said, "Your son?"

"Yes."

"Why are you here? Is that a baby?" Anderson came up to stand beside them, staring at Hamish in confusion.

"It's his son, apparently."

"Who in God's name would have a kid with you?" Anderson sneered, looking down his nose at the two of them.

"Daddy, what is them?" Hamish looked quite unimpressed by these two new people and demanded an explanation.

"Hamish, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan and this is Anderson."

"Not like," said Hamish, frowning at them.

"Yes, I must agree with you there, Hamish."

"Is he really yours?" Sally's expression had softened a little.

"Yes, he's really mine," Sherlock snapped, his frown deepening.

"How old is he?"

"He's twenty-one months old."

"Can I have a hold?"

"A hold?"

"Yeah, can I… can I hold him?"

"Hamish, would you like to go to Sally?"

He curled a little fist around Sherlock's lapel and said, "Not."

"Hamish, that's a little bit rude. What would John say?"

"Okay." He was reluctantly passed over, frowned for the length of Sally's 'hold', and looked very relieved when he was handed back to his father.

"Is there something wrong with him?" the sergeant asked, an eyebrow raised.

"No, there is nothing wrong with him. He's perfect. What are you talking about?"

"Well, he's a bit weird," Anderson chipped in, frowning.

"Alright, that's enough, clear off you two. Thanks for coming, Sherlock."

"Ubstred!" Hamish leapt out of Sherlock's grasp and the Detective-Inspector only just managed to catch him in time.

"Hello, Hamish."

"Ubstred?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Watch Pat?"

"Postman Pat?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh. No, I don't. Do you watch Postman Pat?"

"Yes. Why you not?"

"Uh… I'm not sure. I suppose I've never thought of it."

"Come mine home watch Pat ah Ham."

"Maybe I will someday when I'm not working, how does that sound?"

"Mhmm."

"What about this case then, Lestrade?"

"Yes, of course. Come into my office."

They sat Hamish in one corner of the room with his books, toys, and afternoon tea, and spoke about the case. The two were interrupted by the toddler about eighteen times during their conversation. Usually this was because Hamish wanted to show off a particular toy to Lestrade, or ask Sherlock a question like, "My eat packnakes?" Sherlock did not actually know the answers to most of his questions so would give him a vague, "I suppose Mycroft eats pancakes, I'm not sure," sort of response. At one point, Hamish decided to share his sultanas with his father and accidentally spilled them all over Sherlock's lap.

"Uh-oh. Sorry, Daddy."

"It's alright, Hamish, never mind," he said as he began picking them up and putting them back in the container.

"No, Ham do."

"Are you sure?"

"Mhmm. Ham pick up."

"Alright, thank you, Hamish."

"Okay, Daddy."

It took the little boy close to half an hour to pick up all of the sultanas. This may have been because he stopped at every second one to eat it, and didn't start again until he'd swallowed.

"Inish, Daddy!" He handed the half-empty container of sultanas to Sherlock and returned to his toys.

"Good boy, thank you, Hamish."

Sherlock's phone vibrated, signaling a text.

_Where are you? – JW_

_Apologies. I meant to call you. I had to come into the Yard. I have Hamish. He's just eaten afternoon tea and is playing with his cars. Will be home before dinner. – SH_

_Did he have a sleep? – JW_

_We're fine, John. I can cope. – SH_

_Alright, see you later. – JW_

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Who?"

"Who am I texting?"

"Mhmm."

"I'm texting John."

"Ham John?"

"Would you like to call him?"

"Mhmm."

Sherlock dialed their phone number and waited for John to answer, looking apologetically at Lestrade.

"John. Hamish wants to speak with you." He promptly handed the phone to his son, who proceeded to babble into the phone at a considerable volume for close to ten minutes.

"Bah, John!" he shouted, handing the phone back to Sherlock. "Inish."

"Yes, we'll be home soon. Alright. Goodbye, John."

Sherlock solved the case after only looking at two pieces of evidence, "Lestrade, that was barely a five," and they were, once again, hailing a cab.

* * *

It wasn't the cab driver's fault. The Mercedes ran a red light.

John flicked the television on to watch the six o'clock news and immediately wished he hadn't.

"A fatal car accident in central London has killed two and injured four. A sedan ran a red light at high speed and collided with a taxi on Oxford Street just one hour ago. Both drivers were killed instantly. The passengers of the taxi were a thirty-six-year-old man and his eighteen-month-old son," that got John's attention, "who were rushed to The Royal London Hospital along with the forty-five and forty-two-year-old male passengers of the sedan. We have been told that all four casualties are in a critical condition."

**A/N: Cliffhanger! Next chapter will be up in a few days :)**


	26. A Big Day

**Chapter 26 – A Big Day**

_"A fatal car accident in central London has killed two and injured four. A sedan ran a red light and collided with a taxi on Oxford Street just one hour ago. Both drivers were killed instantly. The passengers of the taxi were a thirty-six-year-old man and his eighteen-month-old son, who were rushed to The Royal London Hospital along with the forty-five and forty-two-year-old male passengers of the sedan. We have been told that all four casualties are in a critical condition."_

John called his flat mate's phone three times, all the while taking deep breaths to calm himself. He'd just thought that Sherlock had forgotten what time Hamish had dinner, or had gotten distracted by something at the Yard.

He gave up on Sherlock's phone and called Mycroft instead. "Are they alright?"

"It was on the news?"

"Was it them?"

"I was about to call you, John. Hamish is fine. He has broken his arm and they put him to sleep about ten minutes ago so they can set it. He was incredibly distressed. They took Sherlock into surgery half an hour ago now."

"What… what's wrong with him?"

"A number of things. I'll explain when you get here. I think Hamish will need you to be here when he wakes up."

"I'm on my way. You're at the Royal, right?"

"Yes. There's a car waiting."

* * *

By the time he reached the hospital, John was on the verge of a severe panic attack, and no amount of deep breathing or happy thoughts did anything in the way of calming him down.

He found an exhausted-looking Mycroft Holmes in the middle of the waiting room, pacing in an extremely Holmesian fashion.

"Shouldn't be too much longer with Hamish, it was a simple but complete fracture in two spots, so they had to put him to sleep to set it."

"What about Sherlock?"

Mycroft sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sat down. "You should sit, John." Once the doctor was seated, he took a deep breath. "He's still in surgery, they think it'll take at least another few hours. Both of his lungs were punctured and they were worried about damage to his heart but it turned out to be fine. His leg's broken and it's quite a bad break so it will take at least eight weeks to heal. Their main worry is that he hit his head very hard when the car crashed. His skull's fractured quite severely and there was some swelling of the brain. He hasn't been conscious since the accident and they're fairly sure he'll have some brain damage."

"Brain damage?"

"I'm afraid so, yes. They won't know how bad it is until he wakes up which could be a few days from now but they're quite certain there'll at least be a bit of damage."

"Oh my God, not… not Sherlock… are you sure?"

"I wouldn't be telling you unless I was sure." He cleared his throat. "Now you need to go and fill some forms in since you're Hamish's only conscious guardian."

* * *

"Doctor Watson?" A doctor with a kind smile stood in the entranceway to the waiting room.

"I'm John Watson." John stood to shake his hand.

"Hello, I'm Doctor Craig. Hamish is all finished. I'll take you to see him." He led him into the hallway, Mycroft trailing behind them, until they reached Hamish's room.

"The arm's set and cast, the cut on his forehead only needed suturing so it shouldn't scar too badly at all. He can go home as soon as he's awake, but he'll have a concussion, so you'll need to watch that. And we'll give you a prescription for some pain killers you can give him because he's going to be pretty sore." He pushed the door open to reveal a very small-looking Hamish, fast asleep in the hospital bed. John was sat next to the bed before Mycroft even realised the door had been opened.

"He was in the car crash, yes?" asked Doctor Carter, flicking through the toddler's file.

"Yeah. It was him and his Dad. They're my flat mates."

"Right. How is Dad?"

"He's in surgery now. We're thinking not too good."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Doctor Watson. I'll leave you to it. Give the nurses a buzz when he wakes up."

As soon as they were alone, John quickly scooped Hamish up and held his small body close, checking over the first-aid work they'd done on the gash on his forehead. Neatly sutured, minimal scarring. They'd put a blue cast on him and John laughed. Hamish would have much preferred green, it was his current favourite colour. He was most definitely in for some whinging about it.

For half an hour he sat while Mycroft paced. Back and forth, back and forth. Finally, Hamish started to stir. John held him even closer and touched a gentle hand to his cheek. He gave a little whimper, and then a pair of blue-green-gold eyes opened, quickly filling with tears as he tried to work out where he was.

"Oh, Hamish. It's alright, little man. Shhh, you need to settle. It's okay. Everything's okay. Is it hurting?"

"No," he whimpered, grabbing hold of John's coat with his right hand. "Daddy hurt."

"Daddy's alright, Hamish."

"Where Daddy go?" He stared up at John with worried eyes, slowly settling into the doctor's hold.

"The doctors are fixing him up right now, okay? They're making him better."

"Yucky, John."

"What's yucky, little man?"

"Tummy."

"Oh, Hamish." He stood up, pressing the nurse call button on his way to the window. Keeping Hamish cradled in the crook of his elbow he turned so the little boy could see the street. "What can you see, Hame?"

"Bus."

"What colour is the bus?"

"Red," he said, before throwing up all over himself.

"You poor little thing."

"Sick?" he said, his voice sounding as if he could break into hysterics at any second.

"It's okay, it's just from the medicine. The medicine's making you feel sick, it'll be over soon. It's all okay. How about we get you cleaned up?"

He made Mycroft sit on the bed with Hamish on his lap so he could properly clean him. The elder Holmes insisted on having a towel across his lap before Hamish was allowed anywhere near him, God forbid he get vomit on his suit.

John wiped him down, and then rummaged through the Bob the Builder backpack Sherlock had taken to The Yard. He eventually found a completely un-matching but nevertheless clean set of clothes, and, once Hamish was dressed, he decided that no nurse was coming, so went to sign him out.

Hamish accidently hit himself in the head with his cast and instantly started crying, just as John was signing the discharge papers.

"It's alright, Hamish. Shhh. We're going home now. Everything's okay."

"What…" he waved his cast arm around, as if he was trying to remove the heavy blue thing that had been attached to it while he was sleeping. He had apparently not noticed it before now. "What it is, John?"

"Calm down, Hamish, it's to fix your arm, okay? Your arm was broken and we have to keep this on until it's fixed again."

"How long?"

"Not too long, little man. Now just hang on one minute and I'll finish with these forms and then we can go home."

"No, Daddy! Daddy come too!"

"No, Daddy's going to stay here tonight so the doctors can fix him up."

"Okay." He rested his head on the doctor's shoulder and started to nod off again.

"Mycroft, will um…" he took a few breaths and ran a hand through his hair, subconsciously holding Hamish closer as he remembered the position Sherlock was currently in.

"I'll keep you updated, John. I'm going to stay here with him." Mycroft sighed, his eyes tired and posture weary.

"Thanks, Mycroft. I'd stay but…"

"I know. He needs to go home. I'll see you soon, Hamish."

"Mhmm."

"It's alright, Hame. It's all going to be okay," John told him. Things were most definitely not alright. And he had no idea if they were ever going to be okay again. But Hamish had been through enough drama today to last him a few years so it was best to simply lie to him. "We're going to go home. Mycroft's going to stay here and look after Daddy. We're going to have a little something for dinner, then you can have your bath, and we'll have a story and then you can go to bed. You can sleep in my room if you'd like, Hamish, since Daddy's not home. How does that sound?"

"Mhmm. Watch Pat?"

"Oh, Hame. I think we missed Pat today. I'm so sorry."

"Okay, John."

"Good man."

"I'll call you as soon as I know anything," Mycroft gave him a pat on the shoulder – an odd gesture from the eldest Holmes – and John slowly walked from the hospital, Hamish in his arms.

Hamish grabbed onto him when they reached the road, but it wasn't until John started trying to hail a cab that he said anything. "No, John! Not! Not car!"

"Oh, little man, I'm sorry. We'll get the tube, how about that?"

"Mhmm."

As they sat on the train, John thought that Hamish had never been so quiet. He was sitting on the good doctor's lap in complete silence, half-asleep, sucking his thumb and looking very tragic.

John's phone rang and, hoping it was Mycroft, he answered it before he'd even looked at the caller ID.

"John? Where are you all?" Mrs Hudson. "Hamish should be in bed, you aren't home."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson. I'm so sorry, I forgot to tell you when I left. They were… Hamish and Sherlock were in an accident. They were in a cab on their way home from Scotland Yard and they… Hamish is fine, he's all sorted. I'm bringing him home on the tube right now. Sherlock's…" He swallowed and cleared his throat, squeezing his eyes shut against the anxious tears that threatened to fall. "He's still at the hospital. He's in surgery. I'll talk to you when we get home, okay?"

"Of course, dear. You look after yourself on the way here. Don't worry, he'll be quite alright. I'll get something ready for your dinner."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, I…"

"It's alright, love. I'll see you in a bit."

John walked from Baker Street station and meandered up the stairs to 221B to be met by their landlady.

"Nan!" Hamish's 'Na' had evolved into a 'Nan' over the past few weeks, a title Mrs. Hudson was more than happy to adopt.

"Hello, Hamish, darling."

"Daddy hurt."

"I heard about your poor Daddy, but don't you worry, he'll be just fine. Would you like some dinner?"

"No. Bed."

"You need to eat something before you go to bed, Hame."

"I taped Postman Pat for you, too, Hamish, so you can watch it while you eat."

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Hudson. You've got no idea how much I appreciate that."

"Pat!"

"Yes, Hamish. We'll put Pat on and you can watch it while you have dinner."

Once Hamish was sat eating in front of the television, Mrs. Hudson sat John down and made him a cup of tea.

"Is his little arm broken?"

"Yeah. They had to surgically set it. The poor little kid. He must have been so scared. He was…"

"He's alright now, dear. He's lucky he's got you."

"They think that… they said… Sherlock… he hit his head… they… think he'll have… brain damage… I… he can't… it's the most important thing to him… he can't…"

"Oh, love, surely not. Oh, John. We'll just have to see what happens. There's nothing any of us could have done. It was just an accident. If it is… as bad as they're saying, and you can't deal with Hamish, I'm sure there's lots of lovely young families who would…"

"No! Mrs. Hudson, no. Hamish stays, no matter what."

"John watch Pat too?" The little boy looked hopefully up at him and gave the doctor a little smile.

"Yeah, I'll watch Pat with you, little man. We're okay, Mrs. Hudson. We'll watch this and have a bath and go to bed. We just need to take this whole thing one step at a time."

"Make sure you call me if you need anything, dear."

"Thanks for everything, Mrs. Hudson."

"Goodnight, love. Goodnight, Hamish, darling."

"Night, Nan!"

"I'll see you boys tomorrow."

John lowered himself onto the sofa next to Hamish who crawled into his lap and snuggled against him, letting out a little sigh.

"How's your arm, Hamish?"

"Okay."

"Is it hurting?"

"No."

"That's good."

"Mhmm. It blue." He pointed to the cast on his arm.

"Yeah, the doctors picked that for you. What do you think?"

He frowned. "Not green."

"No, it isn't green is it."

"Want green."

"Never mind. Blue's a nice colour anyway. I think it looks great. Now, how about you wait here and keep watching and I'll run your bath."

"Mhmm." John was just pouring the bubble bath in when Hamish appeared at his side. "Inish."

"Is it finished?"

"Mhmm."

"Excellent, I'm almost ready for you." He stripped him down and the little boy suddenly looked very concerned. "Would you like me to get in with you, Hame?"

He gave a little nod, but didn't make a sound so John stood up and stripped down to his pants, before picking him up and sitting in the bath.

"Nice," said Hamish.

"Yes, it is nice. It's good to have a bath when we've had a big day. Don't put that arm in the water okay, Hame?"

"Mhmm."

John held onto his cast elbow, just to be safe, while Hamish played with his boat.

"Out. Bed," Hamish declared just as John was starting to relax.

"Right. Bed sounds like a good idea."

He got out first before pulling Hamish out and wrapping him in a towel. He dried himself off and then rubbed the toddler dry; dressing him in a pair of space pajamas he'd bought as a joke. Sherlock had not been impressed.

Once they'd had Hamish's story, John made him a bottle of warm milk to settle him.

"Do you want to sleep in your bed tonight, Hamish, or do you want to sleep upstairs with me?"

"Ah John."

"With me?"

"Yes, please."

John didn't sleep. Hamish lay on his chest all night, his back rising and falling with relaxed breaths. The doctor simply lay there, phone in hand, waiting for Mycroft to call him.

**A/N: Wow that cliffhanger freaked you guys out a little bit. Anyway, hope you enjoyed at least some of it being resolved. Next chapter will be up in a few days. Have a great rest of your week! :D**


	27. Okay

**Chapter 27 – Okay**

The call didn't come until three in the morning. John was in the bathroom with Hamish, giving him pain killers because his arm had woken him up.

"Mycroft?"

"He's just come out of surgery. His lungs are perfectly functional again. They're not sure about his head. It will be at least a day before he wakes up again. How is Hamish?"

"He's okay. I'm just giving him something for his arm, it woke him up."

"I'll call you if I know anything."

"Thanks, Mycroft. Look after yourself."

Hamish briefly removed his thumb from his mouth to say, "How Daddy is?"

"Daddy's just come out of his operation. The doctors have fixed him up and now he's sleeping."

"Okay?"

"Yeah, he's okay."

* * *

"What would you like for breakfast, Hame?"

"Packnakes?"

"Coming right up."

"What do ahday?"

"What would you like to do today?"

"See Daddy."

"We can go and see Daddy if you want. He's still asleep though. He might be sleeping for a few days because he's very tired."

"Oh."

"How's your arm this morning?"

"Okay."

"Damn it, we don't have any milk. You stay right there, little man, I'll just go and get some milk from Mrs. Hudson."

"Okay."

When John returned to the flat, less than thirty seconds later, the little boy had pulled a chair from the kitchen table to the locked cupboard in the living room which contained toys that required adult supervision, art supplies and the like, and was now standing on the chair, trying to open the doors.

"Hamish, what are you doing?"

"Draw," he said, doing his best impression of an innocent look.

"You know the rules, little man. You need to ask for help if you want something from up there."

"John, help please?"

"You want the pencils?"

"Mhmm."

"Sit up at the table and I'll bring them over."

"Ta, John," he said when a stack of blank paper and a tin of crayons and coloured pencils was placed in front of him.

"You're welcome, Hame. Breakfast's almost ready, okay?"

"Okay."

"What do you want on your pancakes, buddy?"

"Jam!"

"Good morning, boys. Have we heard anything?" Mrs. Hudson didn't look as if she'd gotten much sleep either.

"He came out of surgery at about three. His lungs are fine now. He's still asleep. We'll probably go in to see him later this afternoon. I was thinking we could go to the park this morning."

Hamish threw the pencil he was holding across the room and shouted, "No! Not Park!"

"Hamish, we don't throw things. And why not? You love the park."

"Park ah Daddy not ah no Daddy."

"You don't want to go without Daddy?"

"No."

"Okay, well do you want to just stay here this morning?"

"Yes. Draw for Daddy."

"Oh, are you doing a picture for him?"

"Mhmm."

"That's beautiful, Hamish. He'll love that."

"John draw too?"

"Uh… Yes I'll draw one for him too, if you'd like."

"Yes."

So John sat down and drew a picture for Sherlock, although his artistic skill was barely better than his twenty-one-month-old flat mate's.

"Why don't we make a card for Daddy, Hamish? I can write what you want on the inside and you can decorate it."

"Yes! Good idea," he said with a grin.

According to the toddler, Sherlock would very much enjoy a lot of glitter and space stickers on his card. It didn't matter how many times John informed him that "Daddy really isn't that big a fan of space," Hamish insisted that it made the card better.

"Now, what do you want me to write on it?"

Hamish shrugged and looked expectantly at the doctor.

"How about… Dear Daddy…"

"Mhmm."

"I hope you feel better soon…"

"Mhmm."

"From Hamish."

"No. Ham love Daddy."

"Oh, okay. I love you… Love from Hamish."

"Mhmm. Better."

"Anything else?"

"No. Inish now. Ta, John."

"You're welcome, my man. Daddy will love it.

"John?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Daddy okay?"

"Daddy will be just fine."

"Daddy okay now?"

"I think when we take Daddy his card, even if he's still asleep, it will make him okay again."

"See Daddy now?"

"We're going to go and see him after your nap."

"Bed now?"

"Hamish, we only just had breakfast."

"Oh."

* * *

The morning was tiring, what with Hamish asking every five minutes how much longer it was until they could go to the hospital and Mycroft calling every hour or so to inform John that Sherlock hadn't so much as moved since he'd come out of surgery.

He'd rung Mary who immediately called in sick and appeared at their front door. She spent the morning trying to keep Hamish occupied, and providing John with a constant stream of cups of tea.

Finally, it was time for Hamish's nap, and John had the chance to write a quick blog post about the accident, leaving Hamish out. He hadn't actually discussed it with Sherlock yet but he didn't really want the world knowing before they needed to that a very small child now inhabited 221B Baker Street.

His phone rang (again). Mycroft (again).

"He's stirring a little, John. No sign of him actually waking yet; I just thought you'd like to know."

"Thanks, Mycroft. We'll come down in a few hours."

"Is Hamish alright?"

"He's okay. He doesn't seem to be in too much pain so that's good. I'm giving him panadol every five hours. He's just gone down for his nap."

"This afternoon then, John?"

"Yeah."

* * *

"John how are you really?" said Mary, sitting his eighty-seventh cup of tea in front of him.

"I'm fine."

"John."

He sighed. "What the hell am I going to do if he's got brain damage? He would rather die than not be able to use his head properly. What if he has amnesia? Or if he has to learn to walk and talk again? Or epilepsy? What if he can't remember Hamish? What if he never even wakes up, because even though we're all avoiding thinking about it, that is most definitely a possibility."

"Love… we just need to take everything as it comes. There's no point worrying in what's going to happen to him because there's nothing we can do about it anyway. Right now, we just need Hamish to feel safe and calm, and we need to stay as calm as we can as well. I know that whatever happens you're not going to give that little boy up and that's fine. So if Sherlock is as bad as you're talking about, I'm here. I can help with Hamish. If you need me to move in, I will."

"That's not your responsibility, Mary."

"You know that I don't have my own family, John. My parents are both dead and my brother lives on the other side of the world. The people who live in this flat are my family now. I've made the three of you my responsibility. Now, have you called your sister and told her?"

"No. She doesn't even…" he stopped himself.

"She doesn't what?"

"I haven't told her about Hamish."

"John!"

"I don't want her near him, she's a bad influence. And she hates Sherlock." He looked at his watch. "I should get Hamish up."

* * *

"See Daddy now?" Hamish had barely been awake for ten seconds. He'd slept for almost three and a half hours and John was worried about his concussion so he'd had to wake him up. The toddler hadn't even sat up when he asked his question.

"Yes, Hamish, we can go and see Daddy now. But he's still asleep, okay?"

"Okay."

* * *

John changed Hamish, while Mary packed a bag, they then wrapped the boy up in his jumper from Mrs. Hudson, a coat, and a beanie, and walked hand-in-hand (because Hamish refused to be put in the pram) very slowly, to Baker Street Station.

When they finally reached the hospital, Hamish ran ahead of John and Mary, despite the fact that he didn't actually know where he was going. He had to be redirected a number of times with a "This way, Hame".

"Daddy! My!" he shouted when he ran into the room.

"Shhh, Hamish, not too much noise."

"Okay," he whispered in the only way a not-yet-two-year-old could.

Sherlock was asleep in the bed, while his brother sat in a seat in the corner of the room. He gave the new guests a weary smile.

"Go get a cup of tea," John told him.

He mouthed a 'thank you' and slipped out of the room. John pulled the chair over until it was next to the bed and sat down, pulling a solemn little Hamish into his lap. He had apparently been rather optimistic about his father's condition before they'd reached the hospital.

"He's okay, Hame, he's sleeping."

"Mhmm. Daddy okay."

The detective's right hand was resting on his slow-moving chest and would occasionally close into a fist before opening again. Just a reflex.

"Why don't you show him your card, Hamish?"

"Mhmm." He jumped off of John's lap and ran over to his backpack. Mary had put the card in a plastic sleeve so that the bag wouldn't be filled with glitter for the rest of eternity. He ran back to the bed and climbed onto John's lap before pulling the card from the sleeve, spilling glitter all over his father, the bed, himself, and John. He then launched into a monologue about the card, the stickers, the glitter and the message on the inside. He showed Sherlock the two pictures they'd brought and finally jumped from John's lap onto the bed, crawling up to lie at his father's side.

"Be careful of him, Hamish. He's very sore."

"Where?"

"On his head, his chest and his leg. You can stay there. You just need to be careful."

"Okay."

John relaxed back in his seat as Hamish began mumbling to his father about something that the doctor couldn't quite follow.

* * *

Contrary to John's probably-far-too-optimistic-to-be-healthy hopes, Sherlock did not wake up during their visit, and he had to take a tired and extremely disappointed toddler home on the tube.

Hamish slept with him again that night, and John got a little more rest than the night before.

For four days, this was his routine. Get up, kill time until Hamish's nap, put Hamish to bed, get Hamish up, go to the hospital, wait for Sherlock to not wake up, come home and not sleep.

**A/N: I wasn't actually going to put this chapter up until tomorrow but I decided to be nice :) Anyway, hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for all the reviews, follows, and favourites. The next chapter will go up in a few days.**


	28. Up

**Chapter 28 – Up**

"John?"

Hamish had been sitting on the floor, looking at a 'Winnie the Pooh' book (his latest obsession) and watching Peppa Pig while the doctor emailed Molly about what had happened, having only realised that morning that she'd have no idea about the accident.

John looked up to find Hamish standing in front of him with a worried little expression. "Yes, Hamish?"

"Daddy up?"

"No, little man, Daddy's still asleep. Uncle Mycroft will call us if he wakes up."

The toddler's eyes filled with tears and he touched a little hand to John's knee, curling his fingers around a fistful of jeans.

"Oh, Hamish, it's alright." He put his laptop on the coffee table and pulled Hamish close as he cried. "It's all going to be okay, Hamish. It's okay. Maybe we should just stay here today and not go down to the hospital."

"No! See Daddy!"

"Well… We could go and see Daddy now if you'd like?"

"Yes. Now."

* * *

Mycroft had taken a very restless Hamish for a walk when Sherlock first began to stir. It started with a gentle shifting of his legs, followed by his mouth beginning to move a little. Finally, he gave a little moan before falling still and silent again.

"Sherlock? I need you to wake up. Hamish needs you to wake up. Please be okay. I keep telling him it's fine, that you're okay, and I don't want that to have been a lie."

No response. He sat for another hour, staring at his sleeping flat mate before he was once again joined by Hamish and Mycroft.

"Anything?"

"A bit of movement and noise about an hour ago but nothing since then."

"John!"

"Hello, Hamish. Did you have fun?"

"Mhmm. My pink mikshuk for me."

John looked confusedly at Mycroft.

"I bought him a milkshake," he explained.

"Wow. A milkshake? Aren't you lucky, Hame? Did you say thank you?"

"Mhmm."

"He did. He has splendid manners."

"Thanks for watching him, Mycroft."

"Not a problem. That is what uncles do is it not?"

Hamish climbed up onto the bed to lie next to Sherlock, snuggling into his side, resting a little hand on the detective's chest.

John's eyes widened as he watched Sherlock's hand come up from its resting place on the bed, placing itself on top of Hamish's head.

"Daddy?"

At this, the detective's eyes opened a crack, before he flinched and closed them again.

"Daddy?" he said again, sitting up and touching a careful hand to his father's face.

Sherlock groaned and opened his eyes again, his hand clenching into a fist as the harsh daylight hurt his head. John grabbed onto his hand and held it tightly while they waited for him to speak.

He seemed confused for a moment and looked at John. "Is Hamish alright? Was he hurt? I tried to…"

John breathed a sigh of relief. "Sherlock, shhh. He's fine, look." With his free hand, John pointed to the toddler, who was now smiling at the detective.

"Daddy up! You are okay, Daddy?"

Sherlock looked panicked. "I don't… I don't understand. What are you saying?"

"I… I said Hamish is fine. He just broke his arm and he's…"

"Stop! Please stop. Stop talking. Why can't… you're not making any sense."

A concerned look was passed between John and Mycroft. "Sherlock, can't you understand…"

"I said stop! Speak properly, John! How do you expect me to understand you when you're speaking like that?"

"Like what?"

"Stop it, John, it isn't funny!" he shouted, trying to sit up.

"Sherlock…" he started, before thinking better of it and just gently pushing the detective back down, keeping hold of his hand.

"Daddy?"

"Hamish," Sherlock bit his lip, his eyes wide. "Why don't you go for a walk with Uncle Mycroft?"

"No, Daddy. You…"

"Hamish, do what Daddy says. He just isn't feeling very well, okay? Off you go with Mycroft."

"What wrong ah Daddy?"

"Quickly now, Hamish." Mycroft pulled him off the bed and into his arms, waltzing out into the hall.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was having something close to a nervous breakdown because he couldn't furiously rub the back of his head as he normally did when he was anxious.

John grabbed a napkin from the bedside table, and pulled a green crayon from Hamish's backpack.

_It's okay. I think you have some sort of receptive aphasia. Do you know what that is?_

He showed Sherlock the napkin in the hopes that he could at least read.

"Oh. I think I may have deleted it."

_It means you've damaged the area of your brain that allows you to understand language. You can still talk fine, though. And it's obviously quite mild because normally patients can't read or speak coherently._

"Is it temporary?"

He couldn't lie to him. _It can be. We'll need to get your neurosurgeon in here when you're ready._

"Not yet. I'm sorry, John."

_There's nothing to be sorry about._

"Is Hamish alright?"

_He's fine. He broke his arm and he's got that cut on his head. But he's fine. You've been asleep for four days, and he makes us come in every single afternoon._

"Did he make that card?" He pointed to the card on the bedside table and smiled.

_He did._

"How long will this last, if it is temporary?"

_It's different for everybody. Often just a few hours or a few days._

"I want Hamish back here," he said suddenly, tightening his hold on John's hand.

John rang Mycroft and in under a minute, Hamish appeared in the doorway.

"Daddy okay now?"

"Hamish, come here for a minute," said John, pulling him into his lap. "Can you do something for me? I need you to be very quiet, okay? No talking, because right now, because he hurt his head, Daddy can't understand what we're saying."

"Hear us?"

"Yeah, he can hear us, but he can't understand us. Do you know what I mean?"

"Mhmm."

"So no talking, okay? Because it makes Daddy worried."

"Okay. Sing?"

"You can sing if you want, yeah. Just no talking."

"Okay. I go to Daddy now." He climbed onto the bed and settled against Sherlock's side.

"Is he using pronouns properly now?"

John nodded and wrote, _He started the other day_.

"I can hear the words. I hear when he says 'I'. But I cannot make them create a coherent sentence in my mind."

_It will come back. Try to relax. Are you in any pain?_

"A little."

_Will I get a nurse?_

"Not yet."

* * *

Eventually, they were allowed to call the nurse in, who was kindly informed that her son was addicted to heroin, before she went to get a neurosurgeon.

"Yes, Doctor Watson's right. Receptive aphasia. I'd say we're looking at a week or two maximum like this, Mr. Holmes, based on your current ability to properly form sentences, I'm not too worried about…"

"I cannot understand a word you are saying and you know it," he hissed through his teeth.

"It's making him quite anxious," John informed the doctor.

"Right well, I'm sure you can relay the information to him, Doctor Watson." He turned on his heel and swanned out of the room in a huff.

_He said exactly what I already told you. Most likely temporary, shouldn't take too long to sort itself out. _John had bought a notepad and pen from the gift shop, making his job a little easier.

"Thank you."

_Someone will have to stay with you tonight._

"I'll be fine. You need to be at home with Hamish."

"I will stay with him, John."

_Mycroft says he can stay, okay?_

"No. That isn't fair on you."

Mycroft snatched the notepad and pen from him.

_It's fine. Do not argue with me, little brother._

* * *

"Daddy a bit okay now," said Hamish over dinner.

"Yeah. He's quite a bit better. He'll be okay, Hamish."

"Him can ud-un-udnerstand?"

"He'll be able to understand us again, yeah, I think so."

"When?"

"Maybe in a few days, we don't really know."

He shoved a piece of sausage in his mouth and sat kicking his legs back and forth, thinking. "Daddy hurt?"

"Yes. Daddy's a bit hurt. But he's going to be okay. Just like how you were a bit hurt."

"I worried."

"You're worried?"

He bit his lip. "Mhmm."

"There's no need to worry, Hamish. Daddy's really strong. He'll get better super quickly."

"You promit?"

"Um… Yeah. I promise."

"Daddy up now." He grinned and returned to his dinner.

"Yeah. Daddy's up now. Everything's okay."

**A/N: I don't think this chapter will have made you guys any less anxious but hey. Hope you have a great start to your weeks. Next chapter will go up soon!**


	29. Understanding

**Chapter 29 – Understanding**

For six days Sherlock communicated with his guests via the notepad. Every morning he would turn to Mycroft. "Say something."

Finally, one week after his waking, when Mycroft gave his usual weary, "Good morning, Sherlock," he all but jumped out of bed in excitement.

"Say something else."

"Can you…"

He grinned. "Yes I can. Where is my phone? I must call Hamish."

* * *

A very fast pattering was heard coming down the hallway before Hamish announced himself with a far-too-loud-for-a-hospital, "Daddy!"

"Good morning, Hamish."

"You can udnerstand?" he asked, pulling himself onto the bed.

"Yes, I can understand you now."

Hamish smacked his head on the rail on his way up, but simply soldiered on with an, "Oopsie."

"Are you alright?"

"Mhmm. Okay, Daddy. Daddy, look!" He climbed over him and reached for the card sitting on the bedside table.

"That's wonderful, Hamish."

"Mhmm. For you."

"I'm sorry I've been ill, Hamish."

"It okay, Daddy. Look, space."

"Yes, there's lots of space stickers on your card. What's this one?"

"Star."

"Excellent. And this one?"

"Rocket."

"It's green. That's your favourite colour."

"No. Red."

"Is red your favourite now?"

"No. Rocket is red."

"What? No it isn't. Is he colourblind, John?"

Hamish giggled. "No, Daddy. Just joking."

"Oh. You were… oh."

"Just joke, Daddy."

Sherlock kissed his forehead and Hamish sighed. "Your talking is excellent, Hamish."

A confused looking nurse walked in, holding Sherlock's file and staring at the group.

"Daddy okay now!" Hamish said.

"Yes, I can see that. How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?" she said, her voice raised as if he were deaf, and her tone sweet as if he were stupid. He glared at her.

"I'm fine. I have a splitting headache and my chest hurts, but I'm not deaf or stupid so there's no need to talk to me as if I am."

"Excellent, I'll get you something for the pain, dear."

"God, how long must I be surrounded by these imbeciles."

"Here we go," John muttered.

"Until you are better, little brother."

"I am better."

"No, I'm afraid you're not."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand in his brother's direction, before turning to John. "Any other new words?"

"Tonnes. I wrote them down for you. It's not just the pronouns either, he's stopped talking in the third person."

"Well done, Hamish. You're so clever."

* * *

Hamish was telling them all a very animated story about Postman Pat when the doctor arrived.

"I hear you're back with us, Mr. Holmes."

"Are you blind, doctor? I am quite clearly 'back with you', you complete moron."

"Oh my God. I'm taking Hamish for a walk," said John, standing up and helping Hamish off the bed.

"Mikshuk?"

"How about a cake?"

"Mhmm. Cakey."

* * *

"Daddy okay now, John," Hamish said through a mouthful of cake as they sat in the hospital cafeteria.

"Yeah. Daddy's okay now. He'll probably have to stay here for a little while though."

"Okay. Molly!" he shouted, looking over John's shoulder

The doctor turned around and found Molly approaching them, a broad smile on her face. "Hello, John. Mycroft said you'd be down here. I was up with them for a minute but Sherlock was being rude to the nurses."

"That's why we left. Have a seat."

"Look, Molly. Cake!" He held up the remains of his cupcake for her to see.

"Oh, that looks lovely. Is it yummy?"

"Mhmm. John." He pointed enthusiastically at the doctor, sending a considerable amount of cake flying across the table.

"Did John get it for you?"

"Mhmm. My pink mikshuk."

"Yeah, Uncle Mycroft keeps getting you pink milkshakes, doesn't he? That's great for your as yet undiagnosed ADHD," John said as he attempted to clean up some of the cake crumbs that Hamish had managed to spread over the entire table.

"Mhmm. Daddy okay now," he told Molly.

"Yes, Daddy's just fine now. I saw the beautiful card you made him."

"Mhmm. John help me."

"Hamish had a lot of fun making that card."

"Space on there."

"Yes, there was lots of space on it, wasn't there?"

"Back now?"

"Finish your cake first, little man, then we can go back."

"Daddy now," he said more forcefully.

"Hamish, you need to finish eating first."

"Okay, John." He suddenly grinned and shouted, "Mary!" pointing to the entrance of the cafeteria.

She wandered over to the table and kissed John as she sat down.

"Kiss!" Hamish exclaimed. "Kiss for me too, please." Mary leaned over and kissed his cheek with a smile. "Ta, Mary."

"We're saying 'me' now."

"Yep. No more 'Ham'. I didn't even make him; he just started doing it."

"Inish cakey! Daddy now!" Hamish shouted, jumping down from his seat and pulling on John's hand.

"Alright, hold on a minute. I need to clean your hands and face."

"No!"

"Hamish, shhh. You're making a scene."

Hamish glared at him as he cleaned him up.

When John picked him up he shouted again. "No, John! Walk!"

Hamish ran all the way back to the ward, and tripped over a grand total of six times. "Hamish please be careful."

"Daddy up!" he shouted again when they arrived back at his room.

"Yes, I'm still up, Hamish."

"Feeling alright?" John was given a dismissive wave of the hand as Sherlock helped Hamish onto the bed.

"Look, Daddy. Molly!" He pointed to Molly, who was standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"Yes, that's Molly."

"John cake!"

"Did John get you a cake?"

"Mhmm."

"Did you say thank you?"

"Mhmm. Mary too, Daddy!"

"Yes, Mary's here too."

"Daddy, John, My, Mary, Molly. It is a party, Daddy?"

Sherlock smiled. "I suppose it is a bit like a party."

"Need Ubstred."

"Yes. It's not a party without Lestrade, is it."

* * *

Molly stayed for another hour and Sherlock managed to be mostly civil to her. John choked on his tea when the detective thanked her for visiting.

Hamish fell asleep on his father's chest and stayed there for the entirety of his afternoon nap.

"Eat, John?" he said when he woke up.

"You want some lunch?"

"Mhmm."

"I brought you a sandwich. Will that be alright?"

"Mhmm. Jam?"

"Yeah, it's got jam on it."

"Ta, John."

"Lady and Gentlemen," Mycroft stood, "I really need to get back to the office. I can't take any more time away, I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"It's fine, Mycroft." He cleared his throat and John looked expectantly at him. "Thank you for staying all this time. It… it is much appreciated."

"You're welcome, little brother."

"Thanks, Mycroft." John saw him out, closing the door behind him.

"I'd better be off too, John. I've got to get back to work."

"Thanks for coming, Mary."

"I'll ring you tonight."

When the door was finally closed, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"John, I've just remembered. I need to ask you a question." The doctor was halfway through handing another quarter of Hamish's sandwich to the little boy and nearly dropped it when Sherlock spoke.

"A question?"

"Yes. About Hamish."

"What about him?"

"Do you think… is he… does he seem normal to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Is he… odd?"

"What's brought this on? Has somebody said something to you?"

"That doesn't matter, I just…"

The apprehensive look on his flat mate's face brought the realization crashing down on John. "Was it someone at the Yard?"

"It… yes it was, but…"

"Anderson and Donovan. It was them wasn't it."

"Yes, John, well deduced. It really doesn't matter who it was, I just…"

"Sherlock, I know you don't care what they think."

"I just… I don't want for Hamish to have… problems with people."

"Like you do." The detective gave a miniscule nod. "Well you needn't worry because he seems perfectly fine to me. He's really advanced, but he isn't weird."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Look how sociable he is. He's fine, I promise."

"You don't think he's unusual?"

"He… he's a little unusual but it's just because he's so smart. He's just unusual for his age because he's so advanced. But he's really social, he loves other people. He's chatty and affectionate. There's nothing wrong with him, Sherlock. You don't need to worry."

"Thank you, John."

"I mean, he's going to be a bit unusual, being raised by the two of us, but he doesn't have any sort of problem."

"Do you think… would he be better off… somewhere else?"

John had never seen the detective look so concerned. "No, Sherlock. Absolutely not. This is the best place on Earth he could be. As he gets older, he will have trouble, just because he's clever. But if he lives around you, he'll feel like somebody understands him. He won't feel alone."

"And by living around you, he'll know that some ordinary people accept us for who we are. He'll learn the type of people he should give his time to."

"Okay, Daddy?" Hamish frowned at the serious looks on their faces. "John?"

"We're fine, Hamish. Don't you worry. It's all okay."

"Daddy home soon?"

"I'll come home soon."

"Now?"

"No, not today, Hamish. When the doctors say I can go, then I'll come home."

"John dot… dota…" He scrunched his face up in concentration and finally said, "Doctor. John doctor."

"Doctor is new. You're a clever little man, Hamish."

"Yes, Hamish, John is a doctor."

"John say Daddy home."

"Only the doctors here at the hospital can tell Daddy when he's ready to go home, okay, Hamish?"

"No. Not okay. Daddy home now."

"Tomorrow." They all looked up to find Sherlock's neurosurgeon in the doorway. "Daddy can go home tomorrow, little one." She touched a gentle hand to Hamish's head and smiled at the two men. "You're eating properly, your brain function is hyperactive but according to your brother, that's normal for you. Everything else seems to be fine, especially if your…" she looked suspiciously at John, "flat mate," she said as if only to humour them, "is a doctor."

"I really am just his flat mate."

"It's fine, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock smirked and Hamish looked confused.

"Anyway, you'll be fine to go home tomorrow morning. Obviously you're going to be out of action for quite a while with that leg. No running around London until we get that cast off, Mr. Holmes, and no taking it off yourself, is that understood? Come back in six weeks. We'll take that one off, do another x-ray, and judging by the severity of the break, we'll probably need to recast it for another few weeks. I'll be back in the morning with your discharge papers."

"Thank you," said Sherlock, nodding to the woman as she left.

"How in God's name am I supposed to keep you off your feet and amused for six weeks? This is going to be the death of me." John ran a frustrated hand through his hair and sighed.

"What are you talking about? I can still experiment. I can still go to crime scenes and to the Yard. I can still play with Hamish."

"Yeah, well, we'll see how long that lasts, will we?"

**A/N: Whew! Well that was an ordeal, wasn't it? Sorry to stress you guys out so much, the story needed a bit of movement :) Hope you guys enjoyed the update! :)**


	30. Home

**Chapter 30 – Home**

"John up now, please."

He woke to find an extremely-alert-for-two-in-the-morning Hamish pushing his eyelids open.

"Hamish, I'm not getting up now, it's the middle of the night."

"Daddy come home ahday."

"Yeah, but Daddy won't even be up for another few hours, little man."

"Oh."

"You need to go back to sleep, okay?"

"John help?"

"Do you need help?"

"Mhmm. I awake now," he said cheerily, sitting himself on top of John's chest.

"Does Daddy help you go to sleep?"

"If I awake soon."

"If you wake up too early?"

"Mhmm."

"What does Daddy do to help you sleep?"

"Sing a song?"

"Does Daddy sing to you?"

"Mhmm. John sing?"

"What does Daddy normally sing?"

"Star one."

"What, like…" and he started to sing, "_twinkle, twinkle, little star_. That one?"

"Yes. More please."

"Daddy sings that to you?"

"Mhmm. Sing now, please, John."

By the time John reached the second line of the song, Hamish had stopped him.

"With hand, John."

"Oh, you want me to do the actions too?"

"Yes. Daddy does hand."

Eventually, Hamish was asleep again, lying across John's chest, dribbling onto his pyjama shirt. John slept almost all night until half past five when Hamish shifted slightly in his sleep and accidently whacked him in the face with his cast. He spent the rest of the night typing with one hand, working on an update of Sherlock's condition for the blog, thankful he'd left his laptop on the bed.

Hamish woke with a little yawn and, still draped across John, stretched his arms and legs before relaxing again.

"Good morning, Hamish."

"Mhmm. Daddy home ahday!"

"Let's get breakfast going, will we?"

"Yes. Jam!"

* * *

When they arrived, Sherlock was sat on his freshly made bed, glaring at the pyjama bottoms he was wearing.

"Daddy!"

"Hello, Hamish."

"Everything alright?" said John as he organised everything they needed to take home.

"I have to wear… these. My trousers won't fit over this stupid thing," he said, gesturing wildly at his cast leg.

"It okay, Daddy. You come home ahday!"

A smile. "Yes, I'm looking forward to that."

"I miss you, Daddy."

"I've missed you too, Hamish."

Hamish climbed up to sit and his lap and pointed at his leg. "Why it is big, Daddy?"

"I have a cast on it. Like on your arm," he said, pulling his trouser leg up to show him.

"White one?" He looked rather disgusted by the lack of colour. "I fix it ah home."

"How are you going to fix it?"

"Draw."

There was more huffing when they brought in Sherlock's set of crutches. "How ridiculous! I'm not using those."

"Sherlock, please."

"Only until we get home. Then I'll be staying in my armchair until I can get this stupid thing off my leg."

It took him about half a hallway to figure out how to properly use the crutches, almost toppling over a number of times as he found his feet.

"Do you want help, Sherlock?"

"No, I do not want help, John! I am perfectly capable of walking!"

* * *

"Look, Daddy!" Hamish shouted as they reached the top of the stairs.

A large sign in the shape of a rocket ship was hung above their door, with '_Welcome Home Daddy!' _written across the centre, and it had been decorated with glitter, space stickers, car stickers, and a number of Hamish's drawings.

"That's wonderful, Hamish. Did you make it?"

"Mhmm. A rocket."

"It is a rocket. Do you like rockets?"

"Yep. I be a atro-ast-astronun."

"An astronun?"

"Mhmm. In a rocket. I has a helmet. You can see it?"

"I would love to see it. John, his communication is fantastic," he said as Hamish ran into the bedroom. Sherlock made his way to the armchair and slumped into it.

"Yeah. He hit a bit of a turning point with it over the last week or so."

Hamish returned a few moments later with a cardboard box on his head. It had the front cut out of it so he could see, and had also been decorated with space stickers.

"And exactly how much money have you spent on space stickers, Doctor Watson?"

"The man at the newsagent gives them to Hamish for free when I go and get the paper."

"Like mine helmet, Daddy?"

"That helmet is fantastic, Hamish."

"Mhmm. Mary help me. Like Buzz."

"Like what?"

"Buzz Likenear. On ah TV."

"You know, Sherlock. From Toy Story."

"No I don't know. Oh hello, Mrs. Hudson."

She bustled up the stairs and was instantly tidying as she made her way over to John with a fresh batch of biscuits.

"John, you can put on Buzz please?"

"Yeah I'll put Buzz on. But if you watch Toy Story now, there's no television this afternoon."

"No Pat?"

"Nope. No Pat."

"Oh."

"Do you want Buzz?"

"Yes please. Want ah show Daddy."

* * *

"Are you feeling okay?"

Hamish had fallen asleep on the sofa and, not bothered to move him, John had simply draped a blanket over him. The world's only consulting detective was sat in his armchair, crutches abandoned on the floor, staring into space and looking more than a little dazed.

"I'm moderately dizzy."

John was at his side in a second, checking for fever and infection. "Sherlock, do you know where you are?"

"I'm at home."

"Are you in pain?"

"A little. I'm rather confused."

"It's okay, Sherlock. What's your boy's name?"

"Hamish."

"That's right. Can you tell me your birthday?"

"Sixth of January."

"Excellent. Are you still dizzy?"

"Yes."

"What are you confused about?"

"I don't know, I just… I'm just confused."

"Okay, well you haven't got a fever or anything. Why don't you have a little drink of water and a nap? You can stay in here. How about we move you to the sofa so you can lie down? I'll put Hamish in my armchair."

Eventually, both Holmes' were asleep, Sherlock snoring quietly on the sofa while Hamish dribbled on the seat of the armchair, leaving John in peace.

That is until he tripped over the crutches on the way to the kettle, cutting Hamish's nap short with all the noise he was making.

"Uh-oh," he said, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Okay, John?"

"Yeah, I'm okay, little man. Sorry I woke you up."

"Daddy asleep?"

"Yep. Daddy's having a bit of a nap, he wasn't feeling very well."

"I get him woobie." He slid off the armchair and dashed into his room, returning with the woobie, which he then carefully placed over his sleeping father. "Mary come ahday?"

"Yeah, Mary's coming over this afternoon."

* * *

"I get it!" Hamish shouted when the doorbell rang, rushing down the stairs at a frightening speed.

He argued with the front door for a few moments until he finally managed to pull it open, revealing Mary and a slightly-pregnant-looking Molly Hooper.

"Two isitors!"

"Hello, Hamish, darling. Did Daddy come home today?"

"Mhmm. Up please, Mary."

She carried him up the stairs, followed closely by Molly, who was carrying some sort of casserole.

"Oh, Molly, you didn't have to do that," John took it off her and put it in the freezer next to the vials of influenza he'd been trying to make Sherlock get rid of for months.

"I just thought you'd probably have your hands pretty full at the moment. How's the leg, Sherlock?"

He was still splayed across the sofa, right leg propped up on the arm, flicking through a parenting magazine.

"It's fine, thank you, Molly. How are you?"

"Oh… um… I'm fine. Went for my ultrasound on Wednesday. Found out what the baby is."

"It is a baby," said Hamish, not even looking up from his block tower.

"Yes, Hame, it is, but when the baby's big enough, you can go to the doctor and find out if it's a boy or a girl," John said as he handed him a banana.

"Oh. It is a boy?"

"No, it's a girl, actually." She laughed nervously and Mary and John grinned.

"Oh." He looked rather disappointed.

"That'll be great, Molly," said John. "Shame you won't be able to use too many of our hand-me-downs."

"John, what baby will look like?"

"Well… Hamish!"

The toddler had pulled an end table over to the blazing fire and was standing on top of it, leaning over the grate, holding the edge of his banana in the flames.

"Stop that right now!" John dragged him away, pulling the table away from the fire. "You're going to have to sit on the step, Hamish, you know that was naughty. Now, go and put your banana in the bin, and then we're going to the step."

"No. I eat it."

"Nope. You can't eat it now, it's all burnt. That was a very naughty thing to do, Hamish, you could have hurt yourself very badly, and you know it. We don't touch hot things in this house. How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Expremiment."

"I don't care. We do not do dangerous experiments here, do you understand me?"

"I in trouble?"

"Yes. You are in trouble. Now go and but the banana in the bin and then come back to me."

* * *

Hamish had another four time outs before Molly left. One because he'd spat out his new afternoon tea; a habit he'd become rather fond of if he wasn't quite happy with what he'd been given. The second because he'd shouted at John when he asked him to put his toys away. The third because he was being "far too bratty" in Sherlock's opinion, and the last because he'd thrown a colossal temper-tantrum when Molly tried to leave.

"John?" he said as he sat in the bath, having his hair washed.

He gave a weary, "Yes, Hame?" as he rinsed the shampoo out.

"Sorry I bad."

"Oh, little man. It's okay, Hamish." He smoothed the dripping hair back from his forehead and sighed. "I know that you try your best to be good, and I know that it's hard sometimes. I think there's just too much going on in that little head of yours, and that's why you get angry and upset."

"Like Daddy?"

"Yeah, you are just like your Daddy."

"Molly be baby's Daddy?"

"No, Molly will be the baby's Mummy, because she's a lady. Men are daddies, and ladies are mummies."

"Where mine Mummy?"

"Do you remember when we talked about the lady whose tummy you grew in?"

"She is mine Mummy?"

"Yeah. She's your Mummy."

"I not see her. Too busy."

"Yeah. She's too busy."

"You not my Daddy."

A little disappointed at this revelation, John sat back on his heels and frowned. "No, I guess I'm not."

"You my John," Hamish said cheerfully. "Peppa Pig one Mummy, one Daddy, one George. I has one Daddy, one John."

"That's okay, everybody's family is different. Sometimes there's only one Mummy, or two Mummies, or a Mummy and a Daddy, or no Mummy or Daddy, or two Daddies, or…"

"I not two Daddy. I has one Daddy, one John."

"Yes, you have one Daddy and one John, that's right."

"Not George."

"No, we don't have a George either, do we. But that's okay too. Some families have two or three kids in them, some have lots and lots of kids; and some families just have one special little man called Hamish."

"I be big man?"

"Yep. One day you'll be a big man like Daddy."

"Like John too."

"You think I'm a big man?"

"Mhmm. More big ah me."

"Yeah. I suppose I am bigger than you."

* * *

"Daddy can read your story tonight, Hamish, isn't that good?"

He looked decidedly unconvinced and held the book he'd chosen closer to his chest. "Do voice, Daddy?"

"I'm sorry?"

"John do voice."

"Oh, John does the voices, does he?"

"Mhmm."

"I can do voices too. What are we reading?"

"Winnie ah Pooh," he said, climbing into Sherlock's lap.

"Ah, 'In Which Piglet is Entirely Surrounded by Water'."

"Raining, raining, raining, Daddy."

And so, Sherlock Holmes, The World's Only Consulting Detective, read 'Winnie the Pooh: In Which Piglet is Entirely Surrounded by Water' to his son. He quite happily adopted a different voice for all of the characters, including a very deep, dull voice for Eeyore which sounded strangely like an impersonation of one Mycroft Holmes.

"More story, Daddy?" he said at the end.

"No, Hamish, you're very tired. It's time for bed. If you go and put yourself to bed, I'll come and sing you a song, alright?"

"Okay, Daddy. Spider one?"

"I'll sing the spider one if you want."

**A/N: Yay! We hit 30 chapters! Hope you enjoyed the update. Thanks again for all of the wonderful feedback I've gotten about this story. Have a great start to the week!**


	31. Recovery

**Chapter 31 – Recovery**

Sherlock hadn't even been home for two days before John was on the verge of brutally murdering him. He would only move from his armchair about twice a day; he still had not removed the influenza from the freezer; John had been given sole nappy changing duties and was seriously contemplating toilet-training Hamish; the consulting detective refused to eat more than once a day; and he spent all day of every day, not doing all of the things he claimed he would do while immobile, but sitting there, staring at the wall, and whining about how bored he was.

"John!"

A sigh. "Bloody what?" He turned to find that Sherlock had made his way from the armchair to the bathroom and back, and was now standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning on his crutches and frowning.

"They're irritating me."

"What are?"

"These, they're irritating the skin under my arms, will you look at it?"

"No I will not. Put some of Hame's nappy rash cream on it, and then wrap the bits that go under your arms in a flannel or something. Use your imagination."

An eye roll.

"Sherlock Holmes, do not roll your eyes at me. You're being a child."

"Stop," said Hamish from his spot at the table where he was making a snowman out of play dough. "Stop 'ighting now please."

"Sorry, Hame."

"It okay," he said, as if he were in fact the adult in the situation. "But stop now."

"Alright, little man. I'll have a look at it if you want, Sherlock."

"Good," he said, sitting in a dining chair and pulling his shirt off.

John flinched as the shirt made to move over his head wound. "Please be…"

"Yes. I'm being careful, John. Here." He held his left arm in the air, revealing what was quite the impressive rash.

Another flinch. "Is it sore?"

"Obviously."

"I'll get you some of that stuff we use on Hame. Hold on a second." He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with an almost empty bottle of cream. "I'm going to have to get some more if it's both of you carrying on with it."

Hamish had always had the most fabulous eczema which travelled around his body in bouts. Under his arms, behind his knees, on the insides of his elbows, on his chest, on his back, on his neck if he dribbled too much, and around his mouth if he ate tomatoes, oranges, or Marmite. Its favourite area, however, was by far his nappy zone, which was in a constant state of irritation. At times when it was particularly bad, one would be able to find a minimum of three bottles of cream in each room of the flat, a few on the stairs, and at least seven in Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Sherlock apparently had exactly the same sensitive skin; it was just that he didn't wear nappies anymore so had less need for treatment. The rash was not localized to his underarms, but was also present in odd spots over his chest, back, and stomach.

"Is that always there?"

"Yes, often. It's fine, just do under my arms."

"What? I'm not… can't you do it?"

"Ugh, John, I can't see it."

"Well do it in the bathroom then!"

"I don't understand what's wrong with you doing it. You're a doctor. You do Hamish's all the time and it's in his trousers!"

"But you're… but… Why can't you do it?"

"Why can't _you_ do it?"

"Stop 'ighting!" said Hamish like an exasperated parent. "No more!"

"Sorry, Hame."

"John, help Daddy."

John rolled his eyes and squirted some cream onto his hand.

* * *

One day, their lunch was interrupted, not for the first time, by a series of crashes and Hamish's crying. Sherlock then stood up, forgot he had a cast on his leg and fell over, almost giving John a heart attack as he hit his head on the table on his way down.

"Fine," he said. "I'm fine. Go and get Hamish."

Hamish was, as he was so much more frequently than they would like, in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh, Hamish. It's okay. Shhh. Are you hurt?" John kept his voice as calm as he could and ran down the stairs, scooping Hamish up and rocking him. "Listen to me, little man. Are you hurt?"

He sniffed, rubbed his face and said, "No. I okay. Scare me."

"It scared you did it?"

"Mhmm. I 'isit Nan."

"We have had this conversation more than once, Hamish. If you want to go and visit Nan you need to tell us, okay. I don't want you on these stairs by yourself. When we took the gate off you said you would stay up here. I'm going to have to put the gate back on now."

"Oh."

"Yes. Now, let's see how Daddy is."

Daddy was not as 'fine' as he had pretended to be. He was still exactly where John had left him, sprawled across the floor, his hand pressed against his now-bleeding head wound.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Look at me, mate. Sit up. Hamish, I need you to go to your room."

"I in trouble?"

"No, I just need you out of the way, okay? So I can help Daddy. You take Thomas and woobie in there, and pick out a few books and have a little look at them okay? I'll come get you when we're done."

"You are okay, Daddy?"

"I'm fine, Hamish, do what John asks, please."

"Close the door behind you, little man. Mrs. Hudson! Sherlock, it's okay. I need you to keep talking to me. Is your head hurting?"

"Yes."

John pulled the detective's hands away from the wound and Sherlock winced. The bleeding had almost stopped and Mrs. Hudson was now in the doorway.

"Oh dear, what's happened?"

"Sherlock, I'm going to have to take you to the A&E, just to make sure you haven't done any serious damage. Do you feel okay?"

"I'm alright. It just…"

"I know. It hurts, I know. It's okay. Mrs. Hudson, could you please mind Hamish while we're gone. We could be a while. I'll just go grab him. You okay, Sherlock?"

"Yes. Fine."

John carefully helped him up onto a dining chair, handing him a bag of frozen peas to hold on his head. He then quickly pushed the bedroom door open, revealing little Hamish sitting on the bed with a 'Winnie the Pooh' book, his thumb stuffed in his mouth, and his woobie clutched tightly in his free hand, as he cried quietly to himself.

"Oh, Hamish. I'm sorry, little man. Daddy's okay. I'm just going to take him to the hospital to make sure everything's all fine, and you can stay with Mrs. Hudson okay? We'll be back later. Are you hurting still?"

"No. It okay. I see Daddy?"

"Yeah, off you go and see Daddy before we go."

* * *

After a number of scans and panicking nurses, they were sent home by Sherlock's neurosurgeon with an, "Everything's fine. You were very lucky. Please be more careful."

"I'm sorry, John," he said in the taxi, fiddling with the fresh bandaging around his head.

"You don't have to be sorry. It was just an accident. You scared Hame though."

"I know. He understands a great deal more than we realise."

"Yeah, he does."

"I worry about him."

"I know you do. But there's no point worrying about how he's going to go at school or what he's going to turn out like because now he's just a really little kid. And he's healthy and happy which is all that's important to me right now."

* * *

An extremely tired John Watson stepped through the door of 221B one afternoon after work and very nearly collapsed on the threshold.

"How was work, John?" said a surprisingly cheery Sherlock from his armchair.

"Ah… it was… interesting. I delivered a baby at work today," he said, as if he could hardly believe it himself.

"A baby?"

"Mhmm. Yep. A baby."

"Aren't you a GP?"

"Yeah, I thought I was." He sat down, a bewildered look on his face. "She came in… and said that she was having pains. And I looked at her, and she was in labour. So we called an ambulance. But she had the baby before they got there. In my office. She had a baby in my office."

"Well done."

"Where's Hamish?"

"He's making something in the kitchen. We're not allowed to see."

"You're not supervising him?" John jumped up from his seat and moved to dash into the kitchen.

"Of course I'm supervising him, don't be stupid." He gestured towards the laptop on the coffee table which appeared to be playing a live stream of their kitchen. Hamish was sat at the kitchen table working on a very messy painting on an A1 sized piece of paper.

"What's it for?"

"I don't know. And don't mention it to him. You're not supposed to know about it."

* * *

"Okay. You can see surprise now. 'Lo, John."

"Hello, Hamish."

He was completely coated from head to toe in what was hopefully washable paint. He was luckily only wearing a pair of trousers so washing would be minimal. The toddler had tracked blue paint from the kitchen to the living room and it was practically dripping from his hair.

"I get it?"

"Yes, go and get it and we'll have a look." Sherlock did not appear too worried about the mess at all.

The painting he returned with looked quite a bit like a Jackson Pollack. Not only was the sheet covered in a large number of thick stripes of green, blue, red, and yellow, but a series of small footprints trailed across the middle of the picture, explaining the blue paint currently seeping into their floorboards.

The cast on his arm had also received quite the makeover and they had never seen Hamish as proud of himself as he was now.

"It a painting," he informed them.

"That's wonderful, Hame. You've done such a great job. How about we peg it up to dry?"

"Okay. For Daddy and John. For sharing."

"Yes, we'll share it."

* * *

"Hamish?" John said as a particularly impressive splash of bathwater was sent in his direction.

"Mhmm?"

"Did Daddy let you in to the art cupboard?"

"No."

"How did you get into it then?"

"Key in ah drawer," he said cheerily.

"Oh. You found the key."

"Mhmm. In ah drawer."

"Oh."

**A/N: Hope everyone's having a great week. Will update in another few days :)**


	32. Noël

**Chapter 32 – Noël**

When Sherlock found a packet of cigarettes and started smoking one in the armchair, John was well over it.

"Sherlock! You will not smoke in here! You have a baby living in this house. No smoking!"

"But, John, I… No! Don't put it out! He's having his nap anyway." But John had already thrown it in Sherlock's cold cup of tea. "I have to do something. I. Am. Bored!"

"So do something instead of just sitting here complaining all day."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You're not three, surely you can occupy yourself. Watch something on telly, or dig up some cold cases, or write a bloody blog post on different kinds of shoe soles. I don't care what you do, but you will not smoke in here."

"I need a cigarette!"

"So bloody well go outside then, you're not doing it in here."

"Ugh. Fine. I'll just sit here and be bored then. I obviously cannot go outside in my condition, John."

This earned him an eye roll. "Sherlock. You are not the first person in the world to have broken your leg. You need to get over it."

"'Lo, Daddy," said Hamish as he wandered out of his bedroom, his hair looking wilder than ever from his sleep.

"Good afternoon, Hamish."

The toddler gave a little cough, drawing a rather alarmed look from his father.

"Smell yucky, Daddy," he said, wrinkling his nose.

"What smells yucky?"

"You."

"Yes!" said John, hoisting Hamish up onto his hip. "It's because Daddy's been very naughty, smoking inside. We know that smoking is very bad for us, don't we, Hamish?"

"Yes. Bad Daddy."

"If you'll be alright here, Sherlock, Hamish and I are going into town."

"What for?" Hamish said, leaning over until he was placed on the floor where he ran around looking for his shoes.

"Well, they've started to put all of the Christmas stuff up around Oxford Circus so I thought we could do some Christmas shopping and have a look at the lights and trees and everything. How does that sound, Hamish?"

"Mhmm. Good. Where mine shoes are?"

* * *

Dusk was just beginning to fall as they wandered down to Oxford Street, having to stop every few feet when Hamish saw something of interest, be it a bird or a piece of chewing gum on the pavement ("Hamish please don't touch that.")

"Come on, Hamish," John called after he'd been waiting for almost ten minutes while Hamish watched a pigeon eat somebody's discarded sandwich.

"I coming," he said, not moving from the spot where he was squatting.

"Hurry or the shops will be closed before we get there."

That got his attention. "Uh-oh!" He ran back to John, taking hold of his hand again, and pulling him along behind him. "Come, John."

* * *

"Up, please." Hamleys was rather busy and Hamish had panicked, grabbing onto the leg of John's jeans until he was picked up.

"Will we go look at the cars?"

"Yes, cars."

"You can pick one small thing that you'd like, okay?"

"Okay. For Daddy too?"

"If you see something you think Daddy would like then we can get that too, because we're going to see if we can get him a Christmas present today."

"Okay. Up tresent too?"

"An up present?"

"Mhmm."

"What's an up present?"

"Daddy sad. He need a up present."

"Oh, to cheer him up."

"Mhmm."

John smiled. "Okay. We can get him an up present too."

It was in the train aisle that John lost him.

"Hamish?"

To be fair, he had barely turned his back for two seconds.

"Hamish, where did you go?"

At first, suspecting a not-so-fun game of hide-and-seek, John slowly moved around the aisles looking for the toddler. It wasn't until he'd been missing for almost ten minutes that he started to worry.

"Shit."

He looked at the train set, the car aisle, the train aisle again, the spot at the top of the escalators where an employee was doing a demonstration of a remote-control car, until finally he asked someone, a mother of four who looked as if she'd had a lot of child-losing experience.

"Sorry, excuse me, I've… I've lost my son. I don't suppose you've seen him? He's little, like… this tall… dark curly hair. He's got a green coat on. Acts like he's about thirty-five."

"Really cute-looking?"

"Yeah."

"I think he was just over looking at the Lego," she pointed and John calmed down a little.

"Thank you."

Sure enough, there was Hamish, sitting on the floor of the Lego aisle, examining the box of a 'Star Wars' set. John stood in shock for a moment while Hamish looked up, apparently completely unfazed.

"'Lo, John," he said. "Where you went?"

"Hamish, I didn't move. You can't just run off like that, I didn't know where you went. You scared me, little man."

"Oh. Sorry. Look, space!" He held up the box and grinned. "I get it?"

"No, mate. Lego's a bit too old for you. The pieces are too small." He still had not quite grown out of absent-mindedly sticking things in his mouth, and with the half-arsed supervision that usually went on at 221B, objects he could choke on were not such a great idea. "Why don't we have a look for something upstairs?"

* * *

Hamish ended up with a new train for his train set; an 'up present' for Sherlock in the form of a little remote control police car, and John managed to surreptitiously find a few things for Christmas and his imminent second birthday. Unlike his father, it appeared that Hamish was incredibly easy to buy for and John had to pace himself and not purchase the entire shop.

They walked Oxford Circus and John enjoyed Hamish enjoying the lights. He'd convinced the doctor to carry him with an "Up please. I see more," which was fine. John was rather nervous about him running off or getting trampled anyway.

"What in ah bag, John?"

"It's a secret, Hame."

"Why secret?"

"Just because."

He frowned but was instantly distracted by a Christmas tree.

"Would you like your photo with Santa, Hame?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I just thought it would be nice. You can sit on his lap and…"

Hamish waved a hand to stop him. "No, please."

John sighed and let it go. There's nothing worse than a teary Santa photo. Hamish was very interested in a band on the street playing Christmas Carols and was handed a lollipop by a Santa with a bell.

"Say thank you, Hamish."

"Ta. John what ah do now?"

"Well, we need some presents for everybody; will we see what we can find?"

"Yes, tresents."

By the end of their shopping trip, which only involved one time-out, they'd finished their Christmas shopping. Hamish had turned out to be quite the helpful gift-chooser. A very jolly Christmas tie, and some shortbread biscuits for Mycroft; a toy police car for Lestrade; a cardigan and some slippers for Mrs. Hudson; some 'cadnels' for Mary that Hamish chose all by himself; a teddy bear for Molly because apparently, "Molly need a cuddle"; and a new scarf and watch for Sherlock. They had the back of the watch engraved with _'For Daddy, Love from Hamish'_.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson nearly had a heart attack the day they decided to decorate the flat. Sherlock had finally gotten over the fact that his leg was broken so the whining had lessened greatly and they were all in high spirits. Their poor landlady came up the stairs one afternoon in mid-December to find the flat in complete and utter chaos.

They'd bought a tree and dragged it up the stairs and into the living room, leaving a lovely trail of pine needles in the entryway, on the stairs, on the landing, all the way up to where the tree now stood. John and Hamish had been out the day before and restocked their pitiful tree decoration collection, and the empty boxes of these new decorations now littered the floor. Hamish in a Santa hat was taking decorations from their unsightly pile on the floor and gradually hanging them on the tree, getting distracted every twenty seconds or so, and only really covering the area of tree right in front of him.

Meanwhile, Sherlock (also in a Santa hat) was sat on the sofa, putting together a paper chain and constructing Christmas-themed paper lanterns, with the help of how-to videos on YouTube. A cheery Christmas soundtrack was playing in the background, and John was in the kitchen getting the gingerbread ready for him and Hamish to make gingerbread men.

"'Lo, Nan."

"Hello, darling, are you decorating the tree?"

"Mhmm. Like it?"

"Yes, it looks beautiful, love. It's a bit messy up here, boys."

"Never mind, Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock from the sofa. "Hamish, could you please pass me my violin?"

"Okay, Daddy."

"Be careful with it."

"I be careful." He was careful, the most careful they'd ever seen him. He slowly took the instrument in his little hands and carried it to his father, before making another trip for the bow. "What song, Daddy?"

They were given a performance of a Christmas Carol medley which Hamish enjoyed thoroughly, and he fell asleep on the sofa, or rather, on Sherlock, who was more than happy to act as a pillow.

After his nap, Hamish and John cooked and decorated the gingerbread men and finished the tree. John subtly adjusted Hamish's handiwork so more than one square foot of the tree was decorated. They saved the star until last and, with John's assistance, Hamish placed it jauntily on the top of the tree.

The boys spent the rest of the afternoon making Christmas cards for their various friends and acquaintances, and wrapped the presents up. Hamish was given the job of placing the gifts under the tree and was rather proud of himself once he'd finished.

"Good now, Daddy?"

"It's excellent, Hamish."

* * *

The toddler was treated to a Christmas-themed story and then dressed in a pair of elf pajamas, (a gift from Mary), which, according to Sherlock made him look "ridiculous", and "John, he is not a monkey you can dress up for your own amusement."

Hamish, however, was quite fond of the little outfit, and had to show it off to Mrs. Hudson before he went to bed.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" Tucking in time was always prime question-asking time at 221B.

"Who tresents ah trismas?"

"Everybody gets presents at Christmas."

"For me too?"

"Yes. You'll get presents too."

"Oh. Okay," he said cheerily. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"You has Daddy too?"

"Yes. I have a Daddy too."

"You can see him?"

"I see him occasionally, yes."

"Not all ah time?"

"No, not all the time."

"Why?"

Sherlock sighed and double-checked the cot for the woobie. "Hamish, it's bedtime, you need to go to sleep."

"Why not all ah time, Daddy?"

"My father and I don't get on very well, Hamish. Not like you and me."

"I see Daddy all ah time ah I am big."

"Yes. I hope that you see me all the time, even when you're big. Goodnight now, Hamish. Time for sleep."

**A/N: Sorry, I know I said I was going to upload this yesterday but I kind of forgot. A million apologies. Anyways, I figured I'd start doing some Christmassy chapters to get everyone in the spirit and the shops have started with their Christmas decorations so it must be time. We have two more Christmas chapters after this one to look forward to which have been very fun to write. Hope you're all having a great weekend and that all of you Northern Hemisphere kids who have started school over the last couple of weeks have had a great start to the school year :D**


	33. Christmas Eve

**Chapter 33 – Christmas Eve**

"A party, Daddy?" Hamish asked from his spot on the windowsill as the fairylights were being adjusted.

He looked over his laptop to answer. "Yes, Hamish, we're having a party tonight because it's Christmas tomorrow."

"Little or big party?"

"Just little," said John, as he finished with the lights. "But still fun. You know what, Hamish?" he said, staring out the window.

"What?"

"I think it might snow."

"Snow?"

"Yeah. You know, snow. That'll be great won't it?"

Sherlock scoffed from the sofa. "Don't be stupid, John. It won't snow. It never snows in London."

"It might. It snowed that year you were rude to Molly. And it's been really cold, hasn't it, Hame?"

"Mhmm. Cold. It ah snow, Daddy."

"Oh, hey, Sherlock?"

"What?"

"I meant to ask you… is it okay if Mary stays over tonight?"

It was apparently fine with Hamish. "Mhmm, good."

According to Sherlock's face though, it was not okay. "And hijacks our Christmas morning?"

"Sherlock, you hate Christmas morning."

"Not any more I don't."

"Well, I think it's important for Hamish to have a good relationship with her. I want this to be a long-term thing. She's part of our family now."

"None of your relationships are long-term, John. You're incapable of it."

"I… no I'm not." They heard a crash from the landing and realised that Hamish was no longer in the living room. "Hamish, what are you doing out there?"

"Look at shopping," he said, returning to the living room, dragging the shopping bags behind him.

He reached into the one closest him and pulled out a box of condoms, looking at it with interest. John made a panicked shouting sort of a noise and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John grabbed the box off of Hamish and shoved it in his pocket which only served to intrigue the boy further.

"What it is?"

"Yes, John. What is in that box?"

"Um… it's just some grown-up stuff, Hame."

"I see it?"

"Yes, John, why don't you show us?"

"No, little man, it's only for grown-ups, okay?"

"Okay."

"So that's what this is about. You want Mary to stay over because you're going to have _sex_." He looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"Sherlock! Can we have this conversation some other time?"

"What that is?"

John pressed his fingers to his temples. "What what is, Hame?"

"Ex."

Sherlock was given his fifth glare of the conversation. "That's a grown-up thing too, Hamish."

"Why?"

"I… I don't know. It just is. Only for grown-ups okay?"

"Okay. But what it is?"

"I'll tell you when you're bigger okay?"

"Okay." Hamish was also unimpressed until the doorbell rang and John dashed up the stairs to empty his pocket.

"I get it!" It was Mary and Molly who had evidently shared a cab. "'Lo," said Hamish. "Come utstairs?"

Mary grinned and picked him up for a cuddle. "We would love to come upstairs, sweetheart."

"John ah Daddy 'ighting." He didn't look particularly concerned about it; merely letting them know what had been going on.

"John and Daddy are always fighting, Hame. Don't worry about it. What are they fighting about this time?"

"Snow ah you."

"Snow and me?"

"Mhmm. John say it ah snow. Daddy say it not ah snow."

"I think might snow," said Molly as they reached the top of the stairs.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It is not going to snow!"

"It ah snow, Daddy," Hamish said as he was placed back on his feet and, finding himself unable to correct the little boy, Sherlock shut up about it.

Hamish was showing off the tree to their guests when the doorbell rang again and he nearly tumbled down the stairs in his excitement.

"I get it? It is Ubstred?" Sherlock was rather displeased when an enthusiastic, "My!" came from the bottom of the stairs.

"Mycroft?!" He jumped out of his seat and hurtled down the stairs. "What are you doing here?"

"My!" Hamish said again, pointing excitedly at his uncle who quite happily pulled him up to sit on his hip.

"Good evening, Hamish."

"Are you going to answer me, Mycroft?"

"I'm here because it's Christmas Eve and you're having a party."

"Which you weren't invited to."

"Well. I should get to see my nephew at Christmas, shouldn't I?"

Sherlock was about to take another shot at him when John called from upstairs, "Come on, Sherlock, give him a break, it's Christmas."

* * *

"My?" said Hamish, passing a picture that he'd drawn earlier that day over to his uncle. "For you."

"Thank you, Hamish, that's lovely. Can you tell me about it?"

Hamish was well aware that 'Can you tell me about it?' was grown-up for 'I have no idea what this picture is of but I don't want to offend you, but he shrugged this off and started to explain his drawing.

"This Daddy," he said, pointing to a tall, thin line with black squiggles at the top. "This John," he pointed to a smaller, wider line with yellow scribble on top. "This me," a little line with black squiggles, and finally, "This you," a line similar to the Sherlock one but far wider, with no hair and a pointy 'nose', which consisted of a line sticking out of his side.

"That's wonderful, Hamish."

"Yes. Daddy where Ubstred is?"

"I don't know where he is, Hamish. I'm sure he'll be here soon."

"Ubstred late." He frowned and stomped his foot, glaring down the stairs. He suddenly had a thought and said, "Molly, what you's baby ah look?" He ran from his spot at the top of the stairs to sit on her lap, facing her, hands on her stomach.

"Well, I suppose the baby will look a little bit like me. Like how you look like your Daddy. When she first comes out she'll be a bit red and squishy looking, but when she gets bigger, she'll look like me."

"Why red ah squishy?"

"Oh, Hame darling, that's just how babies look when they're born."

John returned to the living room, drinks in hand, Santa hat on his head. "Now, who's missing a drink?"

"My," Hamish helpfully supplied.

"Hamish, can you say Mycroft properly, little man?"

"No," he said. "Just My," which meant that, yes, he was in fact more than capable of saying 'Mycroft' properly, but couldn't be bothered.

As John handed Mycroft a beer which was frowned at, the doorbell rang.

"I get it! It Ubstred!"

There was a pattering sound as Hamish ran down the stairs ("Hamish, please slow down!"), then the door was pulled open and Hamish clapped.

"Ubstred!"

"Hey, little man, how's it going?"

"Mhmm. Good. We has a party! You are late."

"Yeah, sorry about that, Hame, I got caught up at work."

Hamish talked all the way up the stairs about who was over, what they'd done that day, the Christmas tree, and yesterday's episode of Postman Pat.

"Hey, Greg," said John, handing him a beer. "Dinner'll be good to go in a minute or so."

"Good," said Hamish. "I hungry."

"I hope you are, because," and his voice turned to a whisper as he leant towards Lestrade, "I sent Sherlock to buy the food and he accidentally bought double."

* * *

Hamish was apparently in the middle of a growth spurt as he ate three helpings of dinner and two of dessert without looking anywhere close to being full. He was then given a Santa hat and charge of the gift-giving.

Mycroft instantly replaced the tie he was wearing with the reindeer one from Hamish and Lestrade spent most of the evening playing with his police car. Hamish himself had a little trouble coping with his own gifts and Sherlock looked particularly unhappy when he realised this meant the toddler had never been given a present before.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn't realise they'd done this to him," said Mycroft when his brother was given a panicked look by Hamish as Lestrade handed him his gift.

"It's alright, Hamish," Sherlock slid from the sofa to sit by his son. "It's for you. Do you need help to open it?"

"No it okay. You read it?" he held the card up and Sherlock read it out.

"It says, 'Dear, Hamish. Merry Christmas. Love, Uncle Greg.' Are you going to open your gift?"

"Okay, Daddy. It a truck!" he said excitedly, pulling the little yellow dump truck from the paper. "Daddy, out it please."

Sherlock removed it from the packaging and passed it to Hamish who proceeded to fill it with his blocks. They had to practically tear him away from playing with the truck to open his next present, from Molly.

"Read please, Daddy." He thrust the card into his father's hands and started pulling the present open.

"This one says, 'Dear, Hamish. Happy Christmas. Love from Aunt Molly'."

He slowly pulled the paper open, revealing a toy doctor's kit. "Daddy, what it is?"

"It's a doctor's set. So you can be like John."

"Open it please, Daddy?"

He instantly put on the little lab coat and started taking everybody's temperatures with the plastic thermometer.

"Alright, Hame, do you want to open the ones from Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Mary now or tomorrow? Because they'll be here tomorrow too."

Hamish shrugged and returned to listening to Lestrade's chest with his stethascope. "Morrow okay."

"You sure, little man? You can open them now if you want."

"No. It okay. I has truck and ah doctors."

"Okay, well make sure you say thank you to Greg and Molly."

"Thank you, Greg ah Molly." He was given a kiss on the cheek from Molly and a hair ruffle from Lestrade.

* * *

The leftover gifts were placed under the tree and those the adults had given each other were forgotten as the night wore on.

They sat in front of the blazing fire, all feeling particularly warm and jolly. Anecdotes were swapped, including some from the Holmes' childhood.

They decided not to bother with making Hamish go to bed. By half-past-bedtime he was tired enough to simply sit on Sherlock's lap and gradually nodded off against his chest.

"You guys are doing a really good job," Lestrade said suddenly, staring at the sleeping little boy.

"Yeah," said Molly. "He's beautiful. I hope I can do something close to what you're doing with my little one."

"Of course you will, Molly," said Sherlock, carefully shifting Hamish a little so he lay in the crook of his shoulder.

"I'm serious though," said Lestrade. "Like, forget how smart he is, he's really well-behaved, he's polite, he's funny, he's a great little kid."

As if on cue, Hamish let out a little hum in his sleep and Sherlock grinned.

* * *

Their guests eventually left and the inhabitants of 221B made their way to bed. They put Hamish in his cot, and John once again tried to convince Sherlock to hang a stocking at the end.

"John. I refuse to lie to my son and you know it."

"Okay, fine. No Santa."

**A/N: Hope you all had a great start to the week. Next chapter will be up in a few days :)**


	34. Christmas

**Chapter 34 – Christmas **

"Daddy?"

He groaned. "Oh, God, Hamish. What time is it?"

Hamish looked at him as if we were a complete moron and said, "Don't know, Daddy."

Sherlock rolled over and opened his eyes to find a very small silhouette sitting on the edge of the bed. "Oh," he said when he saw the clock. "Six-thirty. Not too early at all. Well done, Hamish."

"Up now?"

"Yes we can get up now. Why don't you go and wake John and Mary up?"

He dashed up the stairs and pushed John's door open, pulling himself onto the bed and clambering over the still-sleeping Mary to sit on John's chest and poke his face. The doctor opened one eye and smiled.

"Is it Christmas, Hame?"

"Mhmm. Up now. Tresent for you."

At this, Mary stirred. She subconsciously wriggled closer to John before opening her eyes.

"Oh. Hello, Hamish."

"'Lo, Mary. Trismas now. Up please. Tresents. Daddy make tea."

John's mouth fell open in shock. "Is Daddy making tea?"

"Mhmm."

"Are you sure?"

"Yep. Up now?"

"Yeah. I'm definitely getting up, I have to see that."

They wandered down the stairs after John had located his camera, and found Sherlock sat on the living room floor, a stack of presents for Hamish waiting in front of him. The promised tea sitting on the coffee table.

"Good morning, Mary."

"Hey, Sherlock. Happy Christmas."

"I get tresent for you, Daddy?" Hamish asked, making his way over to the tree.

Sherlock looked disappointed. "Why don't we have some of yours first?"

"No. I get yours one."

John showed him which one was for Sherlock and he forced the gift bag into his father's hands before plonking himself in his lap.

Sherlock pulled the scarf out first and instantly wrapped it around his neck. He then carefully lifted the lid from the watch box and smiled. "That's beautiful, Hamish."

"Hame chose it himself, didn't you, little man?"

"Mhmm. Look ah back, Daddy."

Another smile as he turned the watch over and read the engraving.

"Thank you."

"Now how about one for you, Hame?"

He looked uneasy. "Okay."

"It's alright, little man. This one's from me and Daddy."

Hamish was quite an excitable lad, although there had only ever been a few times he had been anywhere near as excited as he was when he pulled the paper open to reveal Buzz Lightyear.

"It Buzz, Daddy!"

"Yes it is. Now, let me get him out of the packet so we can put your name on him."

"On his foot."

"Yes, on his foot."

Sherlock lost patience with the packaging and threw the entire thing at John in a huff. Finally Buzz was free from his confines and John was writing 'Hamish' on the bottom of his foot.

"What does that say, Hame?"

"Ham?"

"Yep. That says Hamish."

Hamish opened the rest of his presents with Buzz tucked carefully against his chest, woobie lying forgotten on the floor. Next was a large yellow digger which Hamish placed carefully alongside his dump truck from Lestrade; a tool kit, with which he had to 'fix' almost every piece of furniture in the living room before he would move on; some red wellies which were immediately pulled onto his feet; a knight costume, which was put on over the top of his elf pyjamas; a Woody doll, who was also given a 'Hamish' on the bottom of his shoe and then joined Buzz on Hamish's lap; and finally a wooden castle play set, complete with knights, horses, a working drawbridge and cannons.

"Thank you Daddy ah John," he said, completely unprompted and was rewarded with an almost bone-crushing squeeze from his father.

"You're welcome, little man."

"Will we give John his present now, Hamish?"

"Mhmm."

"You know which one it is."

Hamish ran over to the tree and picked up a present he had quite clearly wrapped himself.

"Sherlock you haven't left the house for weeks."

"We went one day when you were at work."

Inside the package was a jar of strawberry jam, the newest series of Doctor Who on DVD, and a photo frame which Hamish had apparently decorated, space stickers being the main material used. The frame held a photo of John and Hamish which he didn't even know had been taken. They were at the park feeding the ducks. John was knelt at the little boy's side, and apparently something quite hilarious had just happened as they were both giggling, the doctor with an arm around Hamish's shoulders as if about to pull him into a hug, and Hamish with a little hand clutching John's coat.

"That was the one he wanted," said Sherlock while John tried not to cry.

"Thanks, Sherlock, I... Thank you, Hamish. That's beautiful."

"It okay. It you ah me."

"It is isn't it. Can I take this for my desk at work?"

"Mhmm. Mary one now?"

"Yep, you can give Mary her one from you if you want. It's that red one. Can you see it?"

Hamish handed her the gift, sitting himself in her lap now. "Oh, Hamish, how lovely," she said as she held the candles.

"Mhmm. Cadnels."

"He picked them all by himself. He tested every single one in the shop didn't you, little man?"

"Yep. Light one?"

"No, matey, we'll let Mary take them home and light them at her house."

"Here, Hamish, would you like to open your present from me?"

She leaned over and pulled a gift bag out from under the tree.

First, Hamish removed a Toy Story colouring book, flicking through it with interest and picking out which ones he'd like to do first. Next came some coloured pencils, and finally, an illustrated hardback copy of Peter Pan, which the adults assumed he would ignore over the colouring book. Instead, he instantly passed it to Sherlock and said, "What it called, Daddy?"

"It's called 'Peter Pan'."

"You read it now please?"

"No, Hamish. We'll start it tonight, alright?"

"Little bit?"

"Fine. We'll have just a little bit. And then you can go downstairs and get Mrs. Hudson up."

* * *

"Nan? You are up?" Hamish stood outside of her door, knocking and shouting, wearing the knight costume over the top of his elf pyjamas, complete with red wellies.

She finally pulled the door open and grinned. "Good morning, Hamish."

"'Lo, Nan. It ah trismas! Come for tresent now?"

"Yes, love, just let me get my slippers on."

* * *

Hamish was given a little green cable-knit jumper, which was pulled on over his knight costume, the Beatrix Potter collection, and some new bath toys, which he had to try out immediately, so had a bath at seven in the morning.

After his bath they had a breakfast of bacon and eggs and by ten they were all out of their pyjamas.

"You really love him, Mary," said Sherlock, looking at her the way he looked at a crime scene.

John was washing up from breakfast with the help of little Hamish, who would cheerfully inform him whenever he missed a spot.

"Yes, I do."

He seemed a little put out. "Oh."

"Is that okay?"

"It's good actually. He hasn't had a lot of success in this area. I just… nothing… It's wonderful."

"What's wrong?"

"I… I'm a better man for John Watson. He's humanized me. I just worry that if he were to leave… I'd relapse… to how I was before. That would be very bad for Hamish."

"What's going on in here? Cheer up, it's Christmas!" Apparently they'd finished washing up. Hamish launched himself onto Sherlock's lap and started babbling on about Winnie the Pooh.

Mary smiled and with a knowing look thrown in Sherlock's direction said, "We were just talking about Hamish."

* * *

Mycroft came just on lunchtime and found Hamish sitting on the living room floor in his knight costume, laying siege on his new castle.

"My!"

"Hello, Hamish."

The elder Holmes was once again wearing his Christmas tie and sat on the floor next to the toddler, helping him load the cannons.

"Happy Christmas, Mycroft," said John as he emerged from the bathroom.

"And to you, Doctor Watson."

"Hame, why don't you open your present from Mycroft now he's here?"

He was handed the present and gave a panicked look about the room. "Where Daddy is?"

"You want Daddy?"

"Mhmm."

"Sherlock!"

The detective eventually materialized from his bedroom, and threw an irritated look in his brother's direction.

"Hame's opening his present from your brother, he wanted you here."

"It's alright, Hamish. There's no need to be worried. Off you go, open it up."

It was a rather large box which happened to contain a wooden rocket ship play set, complete with aliens, astronauts, and tiny little blasters.

There was also a little set of denim overalls at the bottom of the package which Mycroft almost blushed at. "I just… I saw them and… anyway, hopefully, they'll fit him… I think they…"

"Yeah, they're definitely the right size," John rescued.

Hamish held the overalls in the air and looked at John. "I put it on now?"

"Okay but if you put these on now, you'll have to take your costume off."

"Okay," he said, standing up and trying to pull it off.

"Go and pick out a long sleeved shirt to wear underneath."

He returned with a red long sleeved shirt already half-on, although he was having trouble with the second arm. Eventually he was re-dressed and happily playing with his rocket.

"Hamish, I don't think you said thank you to Uncle Mycroft," said Sherlock from the sofa.

"Thank you, My."

* * *

After a rather large lunch and a fight between the Holmes' about whether or not Sherlock had called their parents, Hamish fell asleep on top of his uncle, dribbling into his dress shirt. The argument had finished unresolved as Mycroft was so mad when he found out that Sherlock hadn't told his own mother about her grandson that he couldn't speak to him.

"You really should tell your Mum, Sherlock," John said.

"And Harry, John. Have you told her about him?"

"I... uh… well no, but it's for a different reason."

"I think you'll find it's for exactly the same reason. You don't want Hamish around Harry because you think she's a bad influence, possibly because of the alcoholism, although I think it's really because of her unstable relationship with Clara. I don't want him around my parents because I want his childhood to be different to mine. I fear that if they have anything to do with him, they'll turn him into a freak. It's the last thing I want for him. That's why I haven't told her, Mycroft."

"Alright boys, that's enough," said Mary.

"When do the casts come off?" Mycroft asked, apparently keen to change the subject.

"Just after New Years," said John. "Although Sherlock'll probably have to have another one put on for a couple of weeks. It'll be good to get Hame's off. He keeps whacking himself with it."

"And me," Sherlock huffed.

"When does he hit you with it?"

"In bed. He doesn't mean to."

"How often does he sleep in your bed, Sherlock?"

"More often than he did… before the accident. It isn't usually for the whole night. He wakes up sometimes and gets quite anxious so I let him sleep with me. I think it's a mild form of post-traumatic stress."

"The poor little kid."

Mycroft placed a gentle hand on top of the sleeping boy's head and sighed. "I respect your decision to keep him from our parents, although I do not agree with it. Nor do I agree with the way they treated you as a child. Perhaps give it some thought, Sherlock. And please call Mother. It's Christmas," he said.

* * *

A ringing doorbell at half-past-four was the last thing they were expecting, or prepared for. Mycroft had fallen asleep on the sofa, Hamish was being rather rowdy, Sherlock, Mary and John were simply in no state to be receiving guests, and the flat was chaotic.

"I get it!" Hamish jumped up but was held back by his father.

"I'll get it, Hamish. I don't know who it is. You wait here with John."

Sherlock made his way down the stairs and nearly threw up when he looked through the peephole. He pulled it open with a frown and was met with a very loud, "Sherlock, darling!"

"Hello, Mother. Merry Christmas."

"We missed you, love, and since you never replied to the invitation we sent, we thought we'd come here for Christmas dinner instead. May we come in?"

"Er… yes of course. We haven't prepared anything for dinner though... We had lunch… we were just going to have leftovers… I… Come up… Although… there's something I haven't told you about."

Siger frowned and Violet stopped halfway up the stairs, turning to face her youngest son. "What's that, love?"

"Uh… you'd better just… go up and see for yourself."

He followed them up the stairs and watched them piece everything together as they stood in the doorway.

"Sherlock, you got married without telling us?" Violet looked as if she would cry.

"What? No, I… Oh," Mary appeared to be the only thing in the flat that was out of the ordinary. Well, her and the toys littered around the living room. "John, where's, oh…" John was missing as well.

"John's in the bathroom."

"Where's Hamish?"

"Kitchen," said Mycroft with a frown in his brother's direction. "Hello, Mother, Father. Happy Christmas."

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"You have a baby," said Siger.

"I… yes. Hamish!"

"Daddy?" He appeared in the entrance to the kitchen and only then did Violet cry.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

At that point, because it needed to be a little more awkward, John emerged from the bathroom doing his fly up. "Who was at the door, Sh- oh. Happy Christmas, Violet, Siger."

"This is Hamish," Sherlock continued. "He's my son." Hamish edged his way over to his father and grabbed onto his trouser leg. Sherlock hoisted him onto his hip and said, "Hamish, these are my parents. Your grandmother and grandfather."

"You's Daddy?" he said, pointing to Siger.

"Yes."

"You's Mummy?" A point in Violet's direction.

"Yes, that's right, Hamish."

"Gran and Papa," Violet supplied.

"Gran, Papa," Hamish repeated, still looking a little confused.

Sherlock moved over to his armchair and sat down, Hamish on his lap, offering the sofa to his parents.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I don't have anything for him." She pointed to the large bag of gifts she'd brought, tears still resting in her eyes.

"No. I'm sorry, Mother. I should have told you about him."

"How old is he?"

"He'll be two on the fifteenth of February. But he hasn't been with us for that long. He moved here at the beginning of July."

"That's six months, Sherlock."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Where was he until then?"

A look was passed between the Holmes brothers and Sherlock said. "With his mother. She didn't tell me about him. She turned up with him on our doorstep one afternoon. We believe he was mistreated by her. But he's thriving now. He's rather advanced. No social problems to note. It's been a difficult time though."

"I understand, love."

John spoke up, "Hamish, why don't you show Gran what you got for Christmas?"

* * *

"Sherlock, I need to speak with you." Siger stood and Sherlock tore himself away from Hamish, who was colouring in his new book, using his father's legs as a table.

The detective followed his father into the bedroom and closed the door behind them.

"Sherlock, are you clean?"

"Of course I am. I'm not completely irresponsible."

"Good." He pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket and started writing. "Now, I'm going to give you the details for some paediatric psychiatrists and specialists who will be able to work with Hamish and help him to develop his mental capacities further. I'll also give you the number of a man who'll be able to get him into MENSA before he's two, you must be fast with these things, Sherlock. Now have you…"

"No, stop, I don't…"

"Do not interrupt me, boy. Have you had his IQ tested?"

"Father, stop. I'm not…"

"Don't tell me to stop!"

Sherlock took a step closer so their faces were mere inches away from each other. "I will _not_ do any of the things to him that you did to me. You ruined me. Thirty years later and I am still unable to function like a normal person. Do you know what that's like? I will _never_ do that to my own son, do you understand me?"

He was not given a response, simply a huff before Siger turned on his heel and returned to the living room. Sherlock stormed back out and immediately pulled Hamish up from his spot on the floor, holding him tightly against his chest for a moment, before sitting back in his armchair with Hamish on his lap.

"Okay, Daddy?"

"Alright, Sherlock?" John eyed him with suspicion and Mary frowned.

"Fine. Thank you."

* * *

They managed to throw together a mildly acceptable Christmas dinner and the Holmes brothers at least were rather pleasant to each other, perhaps because Sherlock was far more stressed than usual, and Mycroft could tell that the conversation with their father had not gone particularly well.

"Have you thought about a nanny, Sherlock?" Violet had also decided that Sherlock and Siger were not exactly happy with each other, and was taking a very upper-classed approach at rescuing the evening.

"No I have not, Mother. I will not fob my child off onto other people."

"Are you two in London then?" Mary's turn to change the subject.

"Yes, Kensington," said Siger. "Probably close enough for you to visit once or twice a year, Sherlock."

"If you only came here to pester me, then perhaps you should…"

"Right!" said John at a rather unnecessary volume. "How are you going with your dinner there, Hame? Everything okay?"

"Mhmm. Okay. They is 'ighting," he pointed at his collective relatives and frowned.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," said Sherlock. "Make sure you eat those vegetables, young man."

"His grammar is a little disappointing, Sherlock," Siger informed him.

"Father, will you stop?!" The outburst, rather surprisingly, came from Mycroft. "Hamish is perfect! And Sherlock does not have to raise his son the way you raised yours. He has chosen to take a different approach and you have no right to try to convince him to do otherwise."

A sigh made its way across the table from father to son, and Hamish turned his attention from making his own mash out of the baked vegetables on his plate to the domestic occurring at the other end of the table.

"Are you challenging me, Mycroft?" The grey-haired man removed his glasses and sighed again.

"I think that I am old enough to be able to disagree with you, Sir. As is Sherlock."

Siger wiped his hands on a festive paper napkin and stood. "My apologies, but I am leaving. Violet, you are welcome to stay if you wish, I'll send the car around a little later. Sherlock, as much as I do not wish to have this conversation with you before an audience, it appears that you've left me no choice." There was no doubt as to where Sherlock had inherited his theatrics from. "Nobody at this table can blame me for not believing that my youngest son is capable of raising a child. He is unstable, self-centered, insensitive, completely devoid of emotion, and immature. He is the biggest disappointment of my life."

"Now, wait a minute…" John also stood, a calming hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he started to argue.

"Don't even get me started on you, Doctor Watson. I have not agreed with one of Sherlock's life choices thus far. I don't like the industry he's in; I believe that his public profile is unhealthy; and I very much do not agree with him shacking up with an unstable, common, needy, stupid man like yourself."

John's hand could not stop Sherlock from shooting out of his seat at his father's words. He didn't shout, but hissed through his teeth with a glare, "Get. Out. Of. My. House."

Mr. Holmes started down the stairs, closely followed by his son who pressed him against the wall when they reached the door.

"Don't you dare insult John Watson under my roof!"

He was shouting now. So loudly that they could hear every word said and Hamish deduced, "Daddy mad," in case they hadn't noticed.

"Say what you like about me, about what I do with my time, about the choices I make! Say what you like about the way I'm raising my son! But don't you dare insult John! That man has done more for me than you ever have! And he has no obligation to me! He accepts me for who I am when you never could! And you will not say a bad thing about him! Now leave before I make you!"

There was a slammed door and then Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs.

"My apologies, Mary," he said as he sat back in his seat. "You should not have been subjected to that." He set about picking food out of Hamish's curls and Mary gently touched his arm.

"It's okay, love."

* * *

After dinner, a rather shaken Violet was given a grand tour of the toy area which ended with Hamish giving a lengthy demonstration of his rocket ship from Mycroft.

Then, Sherlock gave a Christmas-themed violin recital, complete with a pair of reindeer antlers Mrs. Hudson had finally convinced him to wear.

Violet left just as Hamish was about to get in the bath. "Bye-bye, Gran," he said with a smile.

"Goodbye, darling. It was so good to meet you."

"Mhmm. Happy Trismas." He hugged her legs and Sherlock saw her to the door.

"I'm sorry, Mother."

She sighed and put a hand to his cheek. "Oh, my darling boy. You don't need to keep apologizing. I'm so sorry about what your father said. You know I don't agree with him. I'm so proud of you, Sherlock. I hope you know that."

"I'm happy now, Mother. And you know I wasn't keeping him from you because of you. I was trying to keep him away from Father."

"I know, love. Merry Christmas."

"Happy Christmas, Mum."

* * *

Sherlock returned to the flat and leaned against the doorway to the bathroom where Hamish was in the bath, telling Mary about his new castle. "You are okay, Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish. I'm fine."

"Look ah mine new toys, Daddy." He held up a little wind-up submarine and Sherlock moved to sit beside the bath.

"I'll leave you boys to it," said Mary with a pat to Sherlock's shoulder.

"It goes! You can turn it, Daddy please?" Hamish handed the submarine to Sherlock who quite happily wound it up and placed it in the water. Hamish giggled, squealed and clapped before pulling a little wind-up diver from the end of the bath and passing it to Sherlock. "It a man, Daddy!"

"Yes, it's a diver."

Hamish suddenly took a proper look at him and cocked his head to the side. "You are sad?"

"No, I'm not sad."

He looked down at the submarine. "You are sad." It wasn't a question this time. "You's Daddy maked you sad," he said as he fiddled with the toy.

"My father said some things to me that were quite unkind, and it upset me a little. But I'm alright, Hamish."

"You a good Daddy."

"Thank you, Hamish. That's a lovely thing to say."

"Good ah I scared. Good ah I sick. Good ah I hurted, Good ah I bad. You a good Daddy." He looked back up at Sherlock and gave him a dimpled grin. "Uh-oh. Sorry, Daddy. You are crying?"

"No, I'm… Goodness… Sorry, Hamish. I'm fine." He rubbed at his eyes and smiled. "That was very very kind, Hamish. You made me feel a lot better."

"But, why you are crying?"

"Sometimes we cry when we're happy, Hamish, and what you said made me very happy. That's why I cried a little."

* * *

"Now, Hamish, we just have a few more presents for you, alright?"

"More?"

John laughed. "Yes, little man. Here," he said, passing him a large but light and soft package. "This is from me and Daddy. It's just clothes, but we thought you'd like them.

Buzz Lightyear pyjamas, a Toy Story t-shirt, some Winnie the Pooh shoes, two new pairs of jeans, a bright red beanie John had bought for ease of visibility rather than because he thought Hamish would like it, two stripy sets of footie pyjamas, some London-themed socks, and a new coat, also red.

"I put it on?"

"You can choose one set of pyjamas and wear those tonight. That's why I didn't get you dressed after your bath." said Sherlock.

"Oh." Hamish said as he grabbed the Buzz pyjamas, trying (and failing) to put them on himself.

Once he was dressed, Hamish was passed the next gift by his father. "This one is just from me," he said.

As he pulled away the paper, Hamish looked far more excited than John had expected. The 'Children's Scientific Encyclopedia' was instantly flicked through by the little boy. Sherlock stared at him, waiting for any sign of dislike for the gift, and relaxed a little when it appeared that Hamish actually liked it.

"You can read it, Daddy?"

"Yes, I'll read it to you. But not right now. John has one last present for you."

"Here you go, little man." He was passed a soft package about the size of his torso, which he quickly pulled open, having finally gotten used to this gift business. He pulled out a teddy bear, the perfect size, with short light brown fur, and a nice face.

"Teddy!" he said.

"When I was almost two, my Dad got me my Teddy, so I thought you should have one too."

"Mine Teddy?"

"Yeah, he's yours."

Hamish grinned and laid the bear in his lap, examining its little face.

"It's bedtime now, Hamish. Why don't you choose one of your new books and I'll read it to you," Sherlock stood and Hamish crawled over to where 'Peter Pan' still lay, passing it to his father.

Once he'd had two chapters of his story, Hamish was so tired there was no argument about going to bed. He was quite happily lowered into the cot, Teddy tucked against his chest, woobie clutched in his hand, his eyes gazing up into his father's, who was leaning over the edge of the bed, singing a lullaby.

"Goodnight, Hamish," he said once he'd finished the song. "Happy Christmas. Did you have a good day?"

"Mhmm. Ta, Daddy."

"I love you, Hamish."

"Love you, Daddy."

**A/N: Phew, that was a long one. Hope you guys enjoyed it. Feel free to leave a review :) Just a reminder that if you ever have any prompts/suggestions don't hesitate to let me know. You can leave them in a review, a PM, or in an ask on my Tumblr (jayofthebarricade dot tumblr dot com) Also, just a quick question for those of you in the UK, on NYE in London are there 2 sets of fireworks. Here in Sydney we have fireworks at 9pm for the kiddies, and then more at midnight, is it the same over there? And is there TV coverage of the fireworks, etc? Okay, thanks in advance. Have a great weekend! :)**


	35. A New Year

**Chapter 35 – A New Year**

Sherlock had been rather pleased with himself when it didn't snow on Christmas Day, so was less than happy when on the morning of New Year's Eve, Hamish shouted from the window, "Daddy! Snow!"

It was just starting to get light, and Hamish had been sitting on the windowsill in his Buzz pyjamas, watching the sunrise. The waking sun had decided to reveal a notably thick blanket of snow that had been laid over the city in the night.

"Off you go and wake John up then."

"Mary is here?"

"Yes, Mary's up with John," he sat in thought for a second and added, "Perhaps you should knock first."

The couple had luckily not been doing anything particularly inappropriate as Hamish did not knock, he simply threw the bedroom door open and shouted, "John! Mary! Stop kisses please. Snow!"

"Did it snow, Hame?" John asked, sitting up and rubbing a hand over his face.

"Mhmm."

"Well, quick, go and ask Daddy to help you get dressed. We'll be down in a minute."

* * *

John and Hamish (Mary decided to stay in bed and Sherlock refused to come) walked hand-in-hand up to Regent's Park, Hamish carrying Woody today. It had taken them a while to figure his system out, but it appeared that the little boy was giving Woody and Buzz turns to come out with him so they wouldn't feel left out. Sherlock thought it was ridiculous and John thought it was cute and apparently today was Woody's day.

Hamish was rather surprised when he stepped out of the door and landed in the snow with a crunch. "Oh!" he said. "Funny noise, John."

"Yes, it's a crunching sound, isn't it."

"Mhmm. Crunch." He jumped up and down a few times, testing out the snow, before tugging on John's hand. "Come!"

Apparently half of London had also decided to take their children to Regent's Park but they found a vacant spot of decent snow and started building a snowman.

Hamish discovered the joy of snowballs all on his own. John was rather surprised when he turned his back to find sticks for the little snowman's arms and a cold wet ball hit the back of his trousers. He turned to find Hamish standing there, little gloved hand still in the air from the throw, a curious look on his face as he tried to work out whether John was angry or not. When the doctor grinned, he let out a little giggle and a wide smile.

"Did you throw that at me, Hamish?"

Another giggle. "No."

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

"Who was it then?"

"Uh… Daddy?"

"But Daddy's all the way at home."

"Big throw," he said turning a little to point in the direction of home. Just as he turned back around, a small snowball met his chest. He giggled again. "It was John," he said.

They played in the snow for almost two hours, and John didn't realise just how long they'd been gone until his flat mate texted him.

_Come home or you'll give him pneumonia – SH_

Hamish slipped over on the way out of the park, getting mud all over his trousers and brand new coat. He then slipped over again on a particularly icy patch of pavement, although his nappy cushioned the fall. He wasn't bothered by all the time spent on the ground until he tripped just as they turned the corner to Baker Street, landing flat on his face. He lay still for a moment until he decided that, yes, he was in fact injured, and then he cried.

"Oh, Hame. It's okay, you're okay, hop up for me." Sherlock had decided that Hamish was old enough to not be picked up and cradled every time he fell over and cried, which was incredibly frequent, so had forbidden John from this so-called 'molly-coddling', instead making Hamish get himself up, unless there was a leg or spinal injury.

As Hamish sat himself up, John winced. He'd hit his poor little nose on the ground and it was now bleeding down his face. "Oh, you poor little man. It's okay. It's all okay." John picked him up and held him close, ignoring the blood running into his coat. "Let's get you home, hey?"

"Mhmm," he sobbed miserably, rubbing at his face and spreading the blood further. "Want Daddy."

"I know, little man." John rubbed his back as he carried him the rest of the way home, a gentle hand pinching his nose in an effort to stem the bleeding.

Sherlock was halfway down the stairs before John had even closed the front door.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded, taking the boy from John and pulling him against the crisp white dress shirt he was wearing.

"I didn't do anything to him, Sherlock. He fell over."

"It's alright, Hamish," he said, sitting him on the bench. "Everything's okay, it's just a little nosebleed."

"Blood, Daddy."

"Yes, I know there's blood. It's alright. It'll stop in a minute." He held a flannel against Hamish's face while John tried to clean him up a little. He'd managed to spread the blood across his face, in his hair, on his hands, and up his arms. "Did you see the snow, Hamish?"

"Mhmm. 'Noman."

"You made a snowman?"

"Mhmm."

"What else did you do?"

"Felled over." He stuck a thumb in his mouth and held Woody closer.

"Yes, I know you fell over, son. It's fine now. Your nose has stopped bleeding, are you hurt anywhere else?"

"No okay now."

"Excellent. Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

* * *

Soon enough, they were sat in front of the fire, a bathed Hamish in a fresh set of clothes with a warm chocolate with marshmallows in a kiddie cup wrapped in his little hands. The toddler was balanced on top of his father's stomach as Sherlock wandered through his mind palace about some cold case or other.

"Hey, John, I've got to go. Thanks so much for having me over, love." Mary said as Hamish took the lid off his cup and fished around in his drink for the marshmallows, slooshing it all over his fresh clothes.

"Oh, Hamish…"

"What, John?"

A sigh. "Nothing, it's fine. No worries, Mary, it's good to have you around."

"Where you are going?" Hamish demanded with a frown.

"I've got to pick up my little brother from the airport, love. But I'll be back on Daddy's birthday, okay?"

John actually laughed when Hamish, his gaze back on the fire, waved a dismissive hand in Mary's direction, a carbon copy of Sherlock's '_You're boring me now'_ gesture.

"Say goodbye, Hamish."

"Bye-bye, Mary."

* * *

"So, Hame, it's Daddy's birthday soon. Do you think we should have a party?"

"Yes, a party."

"No parties," Sherlock growled from the sofa.

"Why, Daddy?"

"Because I don't want one, and it's my birthday. So I get to choose what we do."

Hamish frowned at his father. "Silly, Daddy."

* * *

"Daddy?" Hamish said as he had his nappy put on after his bath.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"You has nappy?"

"No. I wear pants because I go to the toilet. I don't need a nappy."

"I has pants?"

"You can have pants when you're a bit bigger."

"No more nappies now, Daddy?" he whined.

"Hamish, you have to wear a nappy or you'll wet yourself,"

Hamish frowned. "Want pants."

"I'll talk to John, alright?"

They had a quiet New Year's. Mary's brother had come home for a few days so she was with him. Molly was at her parent's, Greg and his wife had apparently sorted themselves out again, Mycroft had to work, and Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's.

* * *

The Baker Street boys spent most of the evening playing with Hamish's Christmas toys and reading his new books to him. They were already a quarter of the way through 'Peter Pan', up to 'G' in the Scientific Encyclopedia, and had read almost half of the Beatrix Potter books. Over the break, John had built a little bookshelf on Hamish's eye-level in the living room to house his ever-growing library. Not that he minded, there were worse things than a boy who liked books.

He had already, much to Sherlock's joy, started recognizing letters and numbers, and was apparently, "one step away from reading by himself, John! And he isn't even two!"

Hamish fell asleep in John's lap and was gently woken at midnight to watch the fireworks on television, which he thoroughly enjoyed even though Sherlock said they were "dull". He then sat, nodding off against John's chest while Sherlock gave them a lovely rendition of 'Auld Lang Syne' on the violin.

Once the toddler was in bed, the consulting detective and his assistant relaxed with some wine. Well, John relaxed and Sherlock complained about the continuing New Year's Eve coverage on television.

"Resolutions?" said John as he made himself a tea.

"Ugh, how ridiculous."

"Come on, Sherlock."

"No, I will not 'come on'. It's completely stupid! So we're going around the Sun again. Why does that warrant life-changing resolutions that we'll uphold for a grand total of two weeks?"

John ignored him completely. "Well, I want to be a better father for Hamish, and I want to be able to come on more cases with you."

"Congratulations, good luck with it."

* * *

John was more than happy to at least try toilet-training if Hamish was keen. "We could put him in pull-ups until he's confident because he's still pretty small. That way we shouldn't have too many accidents. We'll give it a go this week. It's funny, I was actually looking at the pull-ups at Sainsburys before Christmas, and I don't know if we'll be able to get any small enough for him."

Sherlock instantly looked very concerned and sat up straight in his seat. "Do you think he's small?"

"I... What? No, he's fine. He's just a lot littler than they normally are when you start toilet-training them."

"Oh. He isn't small?"

"No, he's fine. You've been keeping track of him in his red book like a crazy person. He's in the 75th percentile, you know that. That means he's bigger than 74 percent of kids his age."

"He's not underweight?"

"Sherlock," John rubbed his forehead and sighed. "He's fine. You know that he's fine. I'd tell you if he wasn't and we'd do something about it. He's a great eater, he's a perfectly healthy weight for his age. There is _nothing_ wrong with your son, you hear me?"

"He needs a haircut."

"I... Yes he does need a haircut. Maybe we should ask Mrs. Hudson. Will that be his first one?"

"According to his file, yes."

"What are we going to do for his birthday?"

Sherlock took a deep breath and stared at his hands "I want it to be… special… for him. I was thinking… he might be old enough for his own room."

"Oh. So did you want me… to… move?"

"No!" said Sherlock, perhaps a little too quickly. "I've already talked to Mrs. Hudson. We can use the attic. It's rather large. I think he'd like it. And it's safe. There's stairs not a ladder so he wouldn't hurt himself."

"Well, that sounds great. It'll probably take him a while to get used to not sleeping so close to you though."

"He'll be alright. He can't sleep in my room forever. He needs his own space. Mrs. Hudson said there's a lot to clean out up there."

"We'd better do that before I go back to work."

"How much longer are you off for?"

"Two more weeks."

"He likes having you home, John," he said, which was Sherlock for 'I really like having you home and it's good for Hamish too.'

The doctor smiled and relaxed back into his armchair. The fire crackled and both men simply sat, in complete silence, allowing the feeling of warmth, and companionship, and home to wrap itself around them. The floor beneath the Christmas tree was bare, save the pine needles that had fallen away. The tree itself was looking rather mangy, and the decorations around the flat were starting to come away from their fastenings.

They were interrupted by a little cough in the doorway to the bedroom. "Hamish, why are you up?"

"I 'orget Teddy, Daddy."

"Well quickly get him and go back to bed."

"Night, Daddy ah John."

"Night, Hame. Sweet dreams."

"Goodnight, Hamish. Don't dawdle, quickly back to bed."

**A/N: Sorry for the slight delay. I've got quite a few new chapters written and I just wasn't sure about the ordering of them but I think I've sorted it out now. Hope you enjoyed this one. New one will be up in a few days. Don't forget to review :)**


	36. Daddy's Birthday

**Chapter 36 – Daddy's Birthday**

The day before Sherlock's birthday, the three headed down to the hospital to have the Holmes' casts removed. Hamish made his father go first, and even then was absolutely not keen. Sherlock sat him on his lap, both arms firmly around the boy's middle. John sat next to them, holding his cast arm at the hand and the shoulder, and Hamish had brought Teddy for extra bravery. None of these things stopped him from screaming at the top of his lungs and violently wriggling around in his father's hold when the cast-saw made its way towards his arm.

"Hamish. Hamish, it's alright, look at me." Sherlock spoke soothingly into his ear and he calmed down a little. "It's not going to hurt you, Hamish, I promise. I've got you, alright? Everything's okay. You're okay." He cradled the boy's head against his chest and the nurse tried again, with a little more success this time. Eventually, the cast was off and Hamish stopped trembling. He winced and whimpered a little as the nurse pulled his arm from the cast, grabbing onto Sherlock with his other hand.

"You're such a brave boy, Hamish," said the nurse as she wiped his arm clean.

"It's okay, little man," said John, running a hand over his dark hair. "It's just going to be a little bit sore today because it's been stuck in the cast, okay?"

"A bit?"

"Yeah. Just a tiny little bit."

Sherlock's leg thankfully did not have to be recast and John nearly wept with joy.

* * *

"Daddy?"

The detective was huddled around his microscope and looked up when he heard his son.

"Hamish, why are you up?"

"I awake up," he said slowly, apparently a little confused, "you not in bed, Daddy. Why _you_ are up?" he challenged.

"I'm doing some work for Lestrade."

"It ah day now?"

"No. It's still the nighttime."

"John is up?"

"No. John's in bed. It's the middle of the night. About two o'clock."

"Oh."

"You need to go back to sleep."

"Want bed ah you."

Sherlock made his way over to the toddler and picked him up. "You want to sleep in my bed?"

"Mhmm."

"Well, you can't, because I'm not coming to bed just yet."

"Need Daddy." He bit his lip and frowned.

"You'll be alright, Hamish. You're a big boy, aren't you?"

"No. I little man," he said adamantly.

A smile. "Yes, you are a little man. But you're a big boy. You're not a baby boy are you?"

"I just one," he told him, showing him exactly what one looked like on his fingers.

"Yes, you are only one but you'll be two very very soon won't you. And you don't need my help to go to sleep because you're a big boy."

Hamish started crying and grabbed tighter onto Sherlock's dressing gown. "Not want ah be big boy. Want ah be little boy, Daddy helps me asleep."

"Come on, Hamish. You're alright. I'm not going anywhere. I'm just going to be out here in the kitchen."

"No!"

"Hamish, shush. Don't shout, you'll wake John up."

"I not ah bed! I up now!" he shouted as Sherlock lowered him into the cot.

When his head hit the mattress, the real tantrum started. He kicked and screamed and immediately started climbing out of the cot, only to have Sherlock lay him back down.

"No, Daddy! Not ah bed! No!" The screaming continued and Sherlock lowered the side of the cot so he wouldn't hurt himself, waltzed out of the room and closed the door, returning to his microscope.

In less than ten seconds, Hamish was back in the kitchen and pulling on his father. Sherlock instantly started to implement the techniques he always used when this happened. Techniques he claimed he hadn't learned from the Supernanny, although this was a complete lie. He gave Hamish no eye contact, but said, "Hamish, it's bedtime," and carried him back. The next time he would simply say, "Bedtime," and every time after that, be it three or three hundred, he said nothing, simply carried the toddler back to bed.

For an hour they played this game and Hamish still didn't look ready to give up. The problem was that Hamish was a Holmes which meant that not only was being ignored just about his least favourite thing in the world, but he was also one of the most stubborn, determined, and persistent human beings on the planet. He had been screaming non-stop at the top of his lungs the entire time and Sherlock was surprised 221B's other residents hadn't woken up yet. As if on cue, John wandered downstairs, bleary-eyed and messy-haired.

"What is going on down here?"

"I not ah bed!" Hamish shouted at him.

Sherlock almost snapped. He knelt in front of the boy and grabbed his hands, a little rougher than he meant to. "Hamish! Look out the window and tell me if it's still dark."

"Mhmm. It dark."

"Well then, you'd better be in bed."

"No! Not ah bed!"

"Hamish!" John shouted over the wailing. "Hamish, stop. What is the problem?"

"Want ah Daddy."

"Daddy's right here, Hame."

"No. In ah bed."

"You want to sleep with Daddy?"

"Yes." He pouted and folded his arms.

"You're a big boy, aren't you, Hame?"

"No!" he shouted. "I not big boy. I little."

A look was exchanged between the two adults and John said. "Well, if you're only a little boy, you won't get to try out the new things I bought for you."

"What things?"

"You remember the other day when you asked Daddy if you could stop wearing nappies?"

He looked suspiciously at Sherlock. "Mhmm."

"Well I went to the shop and I got a special seat for the toilet for you, and I got some big boy nappies."

"Nappies?"

"Yeah, but they're ones just for big boys, and they're for just in case you don't make it to the toilet in time."

Hamish still was not convinced. "I see it?"

John went to the bathroom and rummaged around in the cupboard for a moment before returning with the seat and pull-ups.

"These are the pants, Hame. They're not quite like big big boy pants, but they're not like nappies, and I think you'll only need them for a little while and then we can get big big boy pants, yeah?"

"Okay. I put it on?"

"You can try them out tomorrow, okay? But only if you're a big boy now and go to bed by yourself."

"Daddy ubfday 'morrow."

"Yep. It is Daddy's birthday tomorrow, that's right. Quickly off to bed now." He was asleep again in less than ten minutes and John turned on his flat mate. "And why are you still up?"

"Experiment."

* * *

Hamish thankfully slept in the next morning, eventually dragging himself out of bed at nine o'clock. Breakfast was well under way, and he appeared to have forgotten what day it was.

"What tresent ah for, John?" he asked, pointing to the small pile of gifts on the table.

"Can you remember what today is, Hame?"

He stood still for a moment until, finally, his little face lightened up. "Daddy ubfday!"

"That's right."

"Where Daddy went?"

"He's having his shower."

"John, I has my big pants now?"

"When Daddy's finished in the bathroom, you can put them on, okay?"

The second the bathroom door opened, Hamish run to Sherlock, hugged his legs, and said, "Happy Ubfday, Daddy. I can has my big pants now?"

"Of course."

* * *

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked as he pulled his little trousers on over the pull-up.

"Good," said Hamish.

"Now, Hamish, if you need to…" Hamish was not paying attention, instead admiring himself in the mirror they had leaning against the wall, originally to distract him while they were dressing him after his bath, still a bit of a struggle. "Hamish, look at me. Thank you. Now if you feel like you need to go to the toilet… Hamish, look at me."

"It me, Daddy!" he said, pointing at the mirror.

"Yes, it is you. Well done. I just need you to listen for a moment. If you need to go to the toilet, you have to tell me or John so we can help you, okay?"

"No. I not need help. I a big boy. See?" he said, pulling his trousers down. "I has big boy pants."

"Yes, you are a big boy, but you might need some help at the start. So you must tell me or John, alright?"

"Okay, Daddy."

They had four false alarms before breakfast, all of which involved Hamish saying, "Daddy, I need ah toilet," being rushed the bathroom, completely removing his trousers and pull-up, sitting on the toilet for a minute, and then saying, "Oh. No wees."

* * *

"What are you going to eat, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, gesturing at the breakfast John had set out.

"I'll sort him, Sherlock. You just eat."

"I'm not…" John kicked him under the table, and he started shoveling eggs into his mouth.

"What would you like, Hame?"

"Egg, packnake, juice, please."

"Do you want the egg on the pancake?"

"No! No no no." He waved a little hand in panic and shook his head. "On ah side."

"Okay, okay. It's alright, mate. One pancake with an egg…"

He was cut off by Hamish reminding him, "On ah side."

"Yep. On the side."

"Thank you," he said as he was passed his plate. "Daddy tresent now?"

"When we've finished eating."

Hamish looked for a moment as if he would argue, but a stern look from John changed his mind. Sherlock's gaze moved from his son sitting across the table, to the wall behind the toddler. "Hamish, did you do that?"

It appeared that the living room wall had been redecorated with stickers and crayon.

"No."

"Do not lie to me, young man. Did you do that to the wall?"

Hamish shifted a little and shook his head. "No."

"Well who was it then?"

"Don't know, Daddy."

Sherlock remained absolutely calm and stared the boy down. "Hamish Watson Holmes," he said slowly. "We do not lie in this house. You know that's the rule. We only tell the truth. Hamish, you're going to be in more trouble if I find out that you have lied to me than if you just tell me that you did the wrong thing. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. Now did you do that to the wall?"

"No."

"Think about what you're doing, Hamish. If I find out that you're not telling me the truth and that you did draw on the wall, you'll be in much more trouble than if you just tell me now that it was you who drew on the wall. It is my job to find people who do the wrong thing, Hamish, and I am very very good at it. If you're lying to me I will find out. I'm going to ask you one last time. Did you do that to the wall?"

There was a lengthy pause as the toddler considered his options before he said, "Yes, Daddy. Sorry, Daddy."

"Thank you, Hamish. Now you'll have to sit on the naughty step because you know that we don't draw on the walls."

"No! No, Daddy! Not ah step!" He kicked and squirmed in his seat but stopped when Sherlock pulled him out and placed him on the ground.

"Off you go and sit on the step, Hamish."

"Not want," he huffed.

"I don't care if you want to or not. You did the wrong thing and you know it. Go and sit on the step. Hurry up or your breakfast will be cold."

So, Hamish stomped his way to the naughty step and sat himself down, looking very grumpy. He barely moved for the entire two minutes, and grinned when Sherlock said he could come back to the table.

"Good boy, Hamish. Thank you for telling me the truth, and for sitting on the step until your time was up, that was very good. After breakfast we're going to clean that wall."

"Sorry, Daddy."

"It's alright, Hamish. Finish your food."

* * *

"Tresent now, Daddy?"

They'd finished breakfast and cleaned the wall (an irritatingly regular occurrence in 221B), and Hamish was about to lose his patience.

"Come up here, Hame, and you can help Daddy with his presents."

He clambered up onto his father's lap and reached for the gift on the top of the pile. "This one?" He looked at John.

"Yep, that one's fine."

"Open now, Daddy, please." He thrust it into Sherlock's hands with a little grin.

A new pair of gloves, a magnifying glass ("Ah find clues, Daddy"), new slides for his microscope, a jar of tongues (human) which John had managed to weasel out of Molly, and a little photo of Hamish for his wallet (sentiment).

"That's wonderful, thank you," he said, trying out his new magnifying glass on the tongues.

"We've got a bit of a special day planned, haven't we, Hamish?"

"Mhmm."

"Do you want to tell Daddy where we're going?"

"See ah fishies, Daddy!" Hamish ran off to find the tickets to the aquarium he'd been keeping secret for almost a week now.

"I figured you really just wanted a day with Hamish. He picked it. He saw an ad on telly and said you'd like to go."

"You see fishies afore, Daddy?"

"No, I've never been to the aquarium before."

"But you are big. John, you has seen fishies?"

"Yeah, I've been before, little man. Now quickly let's get dressed so we can get going."

* * *

Hamish wore his overalls from Mycroft, a blue shirt underneath them, his green jumper, red coat, Winnie the Pooh shoes, and red beanie.

"Daddy, I need ah toilet," he said as they pulled the front door closed behind them.

"Hamish, five seconds ago I asked if you needed to go and you said no."

"Need ah go now."

They opened the door again and rushed Hamish up the stairs and into the bathroom. He did legitimately, and finally, need to go this time, although was a little nervous. "It not coming, Daddy."

"Just be patient, Hamish."

"Stop look ah me, Daddy. Go out, please."

So Sherlock stood in the hallway, waiting until he was allowed to go back in.

"Inish now, Daddy!" he finally said. "Look, Daddy. I did it!" he was still sitting on the toilet, pointing excitedly into the bowl.

"That's excellent, Hamish. Very well done."

"You see it?"

"Yes, I can see it, that's very impressive. Now hop down, pull your trousers back up, and wash your hands so we can get going."

"Did you go?" said John as the toddler ran out of the bathroom.

"Mhmm."

"He did."

"Great job, Hamish. You're such a clever boy."

"I have a star?"

"You can definitely have a star for that."

* * *

Eventually, they were on the road again, walking to Baker Street station, or at least trying to. Hamish kept stopping to interrogate a fast-wearying Sherlock.

"Daddy, what birdie it is?"

"That's a pigeon, Hamish."

"Daddy, what lady is doing?"

"She's just buying a coffee, Hamish. Keep walking please, or we'll never get there."

"I have one?"

"No, you can't have coffee, Hamish."

"Why?"

"Because the last thing you need is caffeine."

"What?"

"It's a grown-up drink, Hamish."

"Daddy, what that is?"

"It's just some rubbish, Hamish. Please don't touch it."

"Daddy, what ah time?"

"It's almost half-ten."

"Daddy, what we will has ah lunch?"

"I'm not quite sure. Maybe we'll get something at the aquarium."

"Daddy there is toilet at fishies?"

"Yes, Hamish, there are toilets at the aquarium. Keep walking, please."

"Daddy, what that is?"

"That's a pub, Hamish."

"What it is for?"

"Men go there when they have unhealthy home lives."

"What?"

"It's for drinking grown-up drinks."

"Oh. Daddy, what that is?"

"It's just a shop, Hamish."

"What they have?"

"Clothes."

"Uh-oh, Daddy. Mine shoe is wet."

"Well, Hamish, that's because you purposely jumped in a puddle, isn't it?"

"Daddy why your hair not flat like John?"

"Flat?"

"Mhmm. You's is up."

"Oh, you mean John's is straight and mine is curly?"

"Mhmm. Why?"

"Your hair is curly too, Hamish."

"Oh."

They finally got on the train where Hamish was cooed at by the elderly woman sitting next to them while Sherlock frowned. Since Sherlock had walked with Hamish, "All the way from the flat to the station," John had to walk with him from Waterloo to the aquarium, and almost lost him when the little boy let go of his hand and jumped out of the train the second the doors opened.

"Hamish!" John grabbed the hood of his coat before he was completely out of sight, and picked him up with a frown. "Hamish, you must not run off like that. You know that when we're out, especially on the train, you have to hold our hand, okay? You frightened me."

"Sorry."

"It's alright, just make sure you stay with us, okay?"

"Okay. I see ah fishies now?"

* * *

John had never before seen his flat mate smile so many times in one day. He and Hamish hurried around the aquarium, peering into all of the tanks, Hamish pointing and asking questions, while Sherlock ran through all of the information there was on each plaque for him. They thought he might have been frightened of the 'Shark Walk', a glass tunnel through the shark tank, but rather they spent a ridiculous amount of time in there, standing by while Hamish stared at the sharks. He lay on the floor on his stomach, his little face pressed against the glass, kicking his legs in the air while he watched the fish swim around him.

He nearly fell into one of the touch pools and they didn't even have their backs turned. Sherlock had simply let go of the back of his coat for a moment, and Hamish had taken the opportunity to throw himself headfirst into the water in order to reach a starfish.

"I hot," he said, already trying to shrug off his coat and jumper which Sherlock quite happily stuffed into the Bob the Builder backpack John was holding, not bothering to ask if he'd like to take turns with it. "I need ah toilet," Hamish added.

Once they were back from their toilet break, Hamish tried to steal a sting ray from their hands-on tank, and got lost three times.

The penguins were by far his favourites; they struck them right on feeding time so the little boy stood on his toes, looking in the window, until Sherlock lifted him up so he could actually see. Some poor penguin-keeper was wandering through the crowd during the feeding to answer any questions people had, and made the mistake of finding Hamish cute, getting stuck answering his questions until John pulled him away with apologies.

"What they are eating?"

"What one ah boy?"

"That is baby one?"

"Where his bed is?"

"What you are called?"

"Why big one not fluffy?"

"I can tuck one?" (He hadn't quite gotten the hang of the word 'touch' yet)

"It can fly?"

"He need a coat? It cold in ah there."

"Why it in ah water?"

"Where his toys is?"

"Why you has a hat? It inside."

"Where his bath is?"

"Hamish! Oh, I am so sorry. Come on, little man, it's time to go."

By the time they got to the gift shop, Hamish's sleeves were dripping from all of the touch-pools he'd played in, he was hungry, needed the toilet (again), and was almost ready for a nap, but looked incredibly happy. Likewise, Sherlock was in high spirits, wandering around the shop, being notably polite to everybody while he looked for something to buy Hamish.

"What about this book, Hamish?"

"No, thank you. Look, Daddy, a ping-pin-pingu. A pingu, Daddy."

"It's a penguin, Hamish. And you really don't need any more soft toys."

"I like him, Daddy."

"No, it's silly. What about this shirt?"

"No, thank you, Daddy."

"You want the penguin."

He said nothing, but gave a little nod.

Sherlock sighed and grabbed a penguin from the display. "Fine. Quickly now, we have to get lunch."

* * *

"What would you like, Hame? Fish and chips?"

He looked horrified. "No! Not fishies."

"Oh. What about some nuggets?"

"Mhmm. Okay."

"Hamish, you know nuggets have…" Sherlock was cut off when John kicked him in the shin because there were no vegetarian options on the children's menu. "Don't forget your manners."

"Please, John."

They were sitting waiting for their food when Hamish suddenly looked very alarmed.

"Are you alright, Hame?"

"Oh no!" he said, and started crying.

"What's wrong, Hamish? Did you forget to go to the toilet?"

He nodded miserably and laid his head on the table as if he'd completely given up on life itself.

"It's alright, Hamish, there's no need to worry. We can go right now and fix you up, alright?"

"Mine pants."

"I know. It's alright. Come on, we'll go to the bathroom and get some clean pants on you hmm? This was why it was a brilliant idea of John's not to go straight to big big boy pants."

With a lot of cuddles and reassurances about how well he was doing and what a big boy he was, Sherlock was eventually able to calm him down and get him changed.

"I has a dot, Daddy?" he mumbled as they returned to their seats.

"No, Hamish love, of course you don't need a dot. It was just a little accident. It's not a big problem; it's not even a little problem. It was just an accident. Do you understand?"

If he hadn't been sitting down, John would have fallen over at the term of endearment. Sherlock had never even shortened Hamish's name. Not once had the boy been called anything other than his full name by his father, let alone something like 'love'.

"Okay, Daddy. Sorry I 'orgetted."

"You don't need to say sorry, Hamish. It's alright."

* * *

"Sherlock, why don't you get your own food?"

The detective was sitting next to his son, stealing chips off his plate. "I'm not hungry enough for my own food."

"It okay, John. I share," said Hamish, offering him a chip as well.

"No thanks, bud. I've got my own lunch."

"You like ah fishies, Daddy?"

"I loved them, Hamish. It was a wonderful idea of yours to come here. Do you like your penguin?"

Hamish grinned and cuddled the penguin closer. "He a pingu, Daddy."

"Right, are you sure about that?"

"Mhmm. I sure. More chippies, Daddy?"

A dismissal wave as Sherlock texted someone. "No, thank you, Hamish. I've had enough."

"Two more chippies, Daddy, or a dot."

"You can't give me a dot."

"Yes. You are bad, you has a dot, and sit on ah step. Two more chippies."

John was served a hard kick under the table in an unsuccessful attempt to stop his giggling. Sherlock then ate his two chippies with a huff and Hamish looked very pleased with himself.

"What ah do now, John?" He looked expectantly at John. Apparently Sherlock was unable to plan activities as every other type of question was thrown in the detective's direction.

"Well it's nearly time for your sleep, Hame."

"No. I not tired. Not ah sleep."

"Hamish, it's past one o'clock, and we've had a very busy morning, you must be tired."

"No, Daddy. I not," he said defiantly, picking at his chips.

"Hamish, we're going out for dinner tonight so you'd better be good if you don't want to be left at home, little man," said John. He'd always been better at getting his way with Hamish than Sherlock was. Perhaps he and his son were too similar. Or perhaps he'd simply gone soft.

"Where we go? Annalo's?"

"Yep. We're going to Angelo's. That'll be great won't it?"

"Mhmm. I like Annalo." It was true. Angelo with his loud voice, exuberance, and eccentricity was one of Hamish's favourite people. It also appeared that the petty criminal had quite the soft spot for children, practically jumping for joy every time they brought Hamish for dinner.

* * *

"John?"

"Yeah?" He was trying to have a few moments peace to read the paper while Hamish was sleeping. Apparently no such luck.

"I'm worried about Hamish."

"Why?"

"He's been saying things that should be beyond his cognitive abilities."

"Like what?"

"He understands concepts that he shouldn't. They should be beyond him but they're not and it concerns me."

"Concepts like what?"

"Like what makes someone a good father; like the causes of negative emotions that aren't 'I missed my favourite television show', but 'My father said some horrible things to me'. He isn't anywhere near two, he shouldn't have even realised that what my father said was unpleasant or cruel. When he says that he loves us, he isn't saying it because he thinks he should, he's saying it because it's how he feels and he shouldn't."

"He shouldn't love us?"

"He shouldn't know that he does. He's a baby."

"Sherlock, he was born to be clever, you can't expect…"

"John, he was parented by two antisocial psychopaths with severe Aspergers. _I _don't know when I love somebody and I'm seventeen times his age. What is going to happen to him? He's a freak!"

"He's. Your. Son. Don't let me ever hear you say that about him again. He doesn't have your Aspergers, I can see that already. He's a beautiful kid, Sherlock, you know that. And let's be honest with ourselves, Sherlock, you're not antisocial or a psychopath."

"He does have my Aspergers, John. Look at the way he gets obsessed with things. He studies them until he knows every single intricate detail. Are you telling me that is normal for a one-year-old?"

"Sherlock… He's just really curious and interested like you are. He's just like you, there's nothing to worry about." This was apparently the wrong thing to say. Sherlock looked more panicked than he'd seen him in quite some time

"John that is the last thing I want him to be. You don't know what it was…"

The bedroom door swung open, revealing a small silhouette with rather large hair.

"Daddy we go ah Annalo's now?" Hamish asked as he wandered from the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

"Hamish, it's three o'clock in the afternoon."

"Hungry now."

"Mmm. You're hungry for afternoon tea."

"Oh." He looked confused for a moment and then said, "Mine pants wet, Daddy."

Sherlock slapped himself in the forehead and immediately set about finding him a fresh pull-up. "I'm so sorry, Hamish. I meant to get you to go to the toilet before you had your sleep. That was completely my fault."

"It okay, Daddy."

* * *

"It Mary! I get it!" Hamish shouted when the doorbell rang.

When he returned to the living room, Mary in tow, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa looking particularly surly, and wearing a blue woolen jumper Mrs. Hudson had knitted him for his birthday and sent through the post from her sisters with a long apologetic letter about missing his birthday. John was not entirely sure what had possessed her to knit Sherlock a jumper, but the detective had at least put it on.

He looked rather ridiculous and Hamish giggled. "Daddy why you have that on?"

"Mrs. Hudson knitted it for me," he said, his frown softening slightly. "Wasn't that lovely," he added.

"Mhmm. It nice."

"Thank you, Hamish. Good afternoon, Mary, I see your brother is very well."

She smiled and handed him the gift bag she'd brought. "Hey, Sherlock, Happy Birthday, love. It's just a little something."

He took it and looked almost embarrassed. "You really didn't need to…"

"Oh, just open it, you great git," she said with an affectionate pat on the back as she sat next to him on the sofa.

He appreciated the lack of wrapping paper, after all, 'It's ridiculous, I can tell what it is before I open it anyway," and happily moved on to pulling his present from the bag. "Thank you, Mary," he said with a grin, a genuine one at that, as he pulled out a vast collection of papers regarding highly advanced children and their development.

"You're rather difficult to buy for, Mr. Holmes."

"This is perfect, Miss. Morstan, you did very well."

"Uh-oh, Daddy," Hamish said, running over from where he'd been playing with his cars. "Stuck," he said with a finger up his nose.

"Your finger's stuck in your nose?"

"No, it a button," he said, picking at it and sounding particularly unconcerned.

Dr. John stepped forward. "A button?"

"Mhmm."

"There's a button stuck up your nose?"

"Yep."

A sigh. "And why, may I ask, did you put it up there to begin with, Hame?" he found a pair of tweezers and washed them because God only knew what they'd last been used for.

"Expreriment. You can get it out?"

Another sigh. "Yeah, I can get it out. Hop up on the bench for me."

Sherlock held Hamish's head still while John swiftly removed the button, having already done it three times that week at the clinic.

"Thank you, John," said Hamish as he jumped back to the ground. "We go ah Annalo's now?"

"Yes!" said Sherlock. "You need to put your shoes and your coat on, go to the toilet, and then we can go."

* * *

Mary said her goodbyes and the boys left for Angelo's where all three were greeted with a bear hug, which startled Hamish considerably, before they were able to sit down.

"Now, what would our little lad like to eat?"

"Chippies?"

"No, Hame," John stepped in. "You already had chippies today. What about some spaghetti?"

"Mhmm. Ah mikshuk?"

"Yeah, you can have a milkshake. What flavour would you like?"

"Pink, please."

* * *

"We've got one more present for you, Sherlock. It might be a bit too… sentimental… for you but I… anyway…"

"Oh, you really didn't need to, John, I… Hamish, could you please try to eat that without getting it all over your clothes?"

John laughed and Hamish said, "No, thank you. Open tresent now, Daddy."

He was passed a square package wrapped in 'Thomas the Tank Engine' paper.

"It Thomas, Daddy."

"I can see that. Did you choose the paper?"

"Mhmm. Open now please."

Sherlock slowly pulled the wrapping away to reveal a large book. He opened it and his eyes lit up as he glanced at the first page. A photograph of a little baby with a head full of dark curly hair smiled out at him. "Is this you, Hamish?"

"Mhmm. It me ah baby."

"Yes, you're a baby here."

"There is more, Daddy."

The rest of the book was far more empirical, with graphs or tables accompanying each photo of the infant. The album documented Hamish's life up to the day he left the research facility. John had cried more than once as he was putting it together because of how significantly unhappy Hamish looked in all of the pictures.

There was a lot of throat clearing and stuttering from both men at the table before Sherlock finally managed to say, "How lovely. Thank you, John."

"You like it, Daddy?" said Hamish as he gave up on his fork and started eating his spaghetti with his hands.

"It's brilliant, Hamish. What's on this disc, John?"

"They had cameras in all of his rooms so I got Mycroft to get me the footage from them. It's all of it. Videos they took in utero, his birth, all his time at the facility, and I also put on there all the photos and video I've taken since he's lived with us."

He closed the book and awkwardly said, "Well… thank you… it is… appreciated."

* * *

After a far-too-large-for-his-tiny-stomach dessert, Hamish looked ready to fall asleep in his seat and they decided to head home.

"Night, Daddy," he said as he was placed in his cot.

"Goodnight, Hamish."

"Happy Birfday, Daddy."

Sherlock whirled around and leaned over the side of the cot. "Say that again."

"Happy Birfday, Daddy," he said with a proud little grin.

"Excellent talking, Hamish. Very well done. Thank you for taking me out today, I had a wonderful time."

"Okay, Daddy. Night. Love you, Daddy." He yawned and lay down, Teddy in one hand and woobie in the other, contorting one of his arms so he could have his thumb in his mouth.

"I love you too, Hamish. Sleep well."

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay but I've had a sinus infection for the last two weeks so I haven't been able to do much writing. Also, I think this is the longest chapter so far at over 5000 words. Anyway thanks for your patience, and for your great feedback which is always appreciated. I'll upload the next chapter which (spoiler alert) is about Doctor Who on Friday :)**


	37. A Little Timelord

**Chapter 37 – A Little Time Lord**

"John, what you are watching?"

"Oh." He quickly reached for the remote and muted the television.

Sherlock was at Scotland Yard, so John had taken the opportunity to watch Doctor Who while his annoying flat mate was gone and Hamish was napping.

"What it is?"

"It's just a show, mate."

"I watch it?"

"Um… Yeah I guess that's okay. This one isn't too scary." He pulled Hamish onto his lap and took it off mute. "If you want me to turn it off just say so, okay?"

"Okay. What his name?"

"He's The Doctor."

"Like you!"

"Yeah. He's a special kind of doctor though."

"Shush," said Hamish, apparently already quite absorbed in the show. "What is lady?" he said after a few minutes of silence.

"That's his best friend Rose."

"Okay. What is light? It is a torch?"

"That's his sonic screwdriver."

"What it does?"

"It does lots of things. It opens doors and fixes things and scans things for him."

"Want one."

"Yeah, me too, little man."

* * *

Over the next week, Sherlock was busy dashing about London after some serial killer or other, so John and Hamish watched all of the New Who episodes the good doctor deemed suitable. Being the toddler's first doctor, David Tennant was instantly his favourite, and Hamish spent a considerable amount of his time trying his best to look like the tenth doctor. He'd been extremely displeased when John hadn't been able to tame his dark curls enough to style them like The Doctor's.

They were walking past the Converse store one afternoon when Hamish stopped dead in his tracks.

"John!"

"What is it, mate?"

"Shoes! I get shoes, John?"

"What shoes?"

"Like ah Doctor." He was pointing excitedly in the window at a pair of white Converses and grinning.

"Why don't we see if they've got any in your size, Hame?"

His Pooh Bear trainers were abandoned the second his new ones were paid for, and for the rest of the day, he would stop every few steps to admire the shoes he was wearing.

John was yet to find him the rest of the costume, as brown pinstripe suits for under-twos were not exactly a la mode. He was complaining about it to Mrs. Hudson one day when she volunteered to make him one for his birthday.

They'd put up a shelf in the bedroom that Hamish could reach which housed his fast-growing collection of Doctor Who figurines. He had two cybermen, three Daleks, the Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh Doctors, Rose, Amy, Rory in casual wear, Rory as a Centurion, an Ood, of course, a TARDIS, and a TARDIS interior play-set; all courtesy of Uncle Mycroft. He was considerably unhappy that he'd had to get the Eleventh Doctor's TARDIS as he insisted that he was "not real Doctor". He'd been on the look-out for a Donna figure (his favourite companion) but had not had any luck. Once, in Hamleys, John had caught him demanding from some employee, "Where Donna is?"

John somehow managed to forget how utterly terrifying the Clockwork Robots were, so Hamish refused to go to bed by himself for a week because, "There is ticks." They'd also had to take the batteries out of every clock in the flat that made any noise at all.

One afternoon while John was helping Mrs. Hudson with a broken door handle, they heard an incredibly loud and fantastically furious shout from upstairs.

"Daddy! Broked it, Daddy!" Then he started crying.

"I'm sorry, Hamish, it was an accident."

"No! Not touch! Go away, Daddy!"

A door slammed and John decided he should probably intervene.

"Um…" he poked his head through the doorway to find Sherlock on the sofa with his head in his hands. "What's happened then?"

"I _accidentally_ stood on his stupid blue box."

"TARDIS, Daddy!" came from the bedroom.

"Hamish?" John carefully opened the bedroom door and stepped inside. Hamish was curled up in the middle of Sherlock's bed, wrapped around his TARDIS. "Can I have a look, little man?"

It was well and truly broken, and Hamish was well and truly fuming.

"It's okay, Hame. Can you settle down and listen for a little minute. Come sit on my lap. It's okay." Once the little boy was settled against his chest, John said, "Hamish, Daddy didn't mean to break it, it was just an accident. I know that you're upset, but it's okay. Tomorrow we can go to the shop and get a new one, okay?"

"No. Don't want new one. Want my one."

"I know. I'm really sorry, Hame. And Daddy's really sorry too. He didn't mean to. Now this is why we don't leave our toys on the floor."

"No, it waiting."

"Waiting for what?"

"For ah Doctor. He is 'ighting ah Daleks."

"Oh."

"Now he stuck."

"Oh, I see. Why don't we watch some Doctor Who until dinner time?"

"Okay." He jumped down onto the floor and ran into the living room. "It okay, Daddy. I get new one. Watch ah Doctor ah me?"

"Yes, I suppose I can watch it with you."

"Which one do you want, Hame?"

"Donna ah spider one."

* * *

John got home from work one afternoon to find an empty bottle of blue paint sitting at the top of the stairs and proceeded with caution.

His flat mates were sat in the middle of the living room floor, painting a large cardboard box. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had recently acquired a new washing machine.

"John! You is back!" Hamish jumped up and grabbed John's hand with his own wet blue one. "Look! It my TARDIS! But little on ah inside."

"Wow, Hamish, that's amazing!"

"Mhmm. Daddy help me."

"It isn't quite finished," said Sherlock, whose pyjama shirt had also had a makeover and was now almost completely TARDIS blue. "He has the most incredible attention to detail."

"Need a light."

"Yes, apparently there's a light on the top."

They'd painted the entire box blue, and had finished the windows and door handles. Sherlock was in the midst of painting the sign on the door, copying it off a picture on his phone and trying not to slip as Hamish kept pulling the doors open and closed.

"Hamish, love, could you please just wait until I'm finished before you test out the doors?"

"Okay, Daddy."

Eventually it was finished. Hamish had surprisingly settled with a not-so-accurate-to-the-show torch stuck through the roof and covered with an empty jam jar for the lantern, and was now sitting inside the TARDIS with his figures.

He emerged half-an-hour later looking tired but very happy, and pulled himself into Sherlock's lap. "Thank you, Daddy," he said. "Like my TARDIS."

"You like it?"

"Mhmm. Thank you, Daddy."

"You're welcome, Hamish. I'm glad you like it."

* * *

"Daddy?"

Sherlock had just gotten into bed when the little voice floated over from Hamish's cot.

"What is it, Hamish?"

"I sleep ah you?"

"Yes, I suppose that's fine."

There was some rustling and grunting, and a small thump as he reached the floor, before some pattering towards the bed. Then some more grunting and rustling as he pulled himself up and plopped himself on Sherlock's chest.

"Hello, Hamish."

"'Lo, Daddy. Uh-oh, I 'orgetted woobie."

"Off you go and get it then."

More grunting, rustling, thumping and a small fist to Sherlock's head ("Oopsie. Sorry, Daddy.") and Hamish was back in bed. "I have him now."

"Excellent work. You need to go back to sleep now, alright?"

"Okay, Daddy."

Hamish settled himself on his father's chest and gave a little sigh as Sherlock placed a gentle hand on the boy's back and a small kiss on the top of his head.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"I be ah Doctor?"

"Like on television?"

"Mhmm."

"You can be whatever you want to be, Hamish. If you want to be The Doctor, then that's absolutely fine."

"I be a doctor like John?"

"Yes. You can be a doctor like John if you like. Whatever you want."

"What you is called, Daddy?"

"I'm a consulting detective."

"Edective?"

"Yes, that's right."

"I be edective too?"

"If that's what you want then that's what you can do. I'll be proud of you whatever you do, Hamish."

"Okay, Daddy. I be ah Doctor."

"Yes. You can be The Doctor. Goodnight, Hamish."

"Ni, Daddy. Love you."

"I love you too, son."

**A/N: Hopefully you guys will get an email for this chapter, this website is being very silly with its emails. So if you've sent me a PM or something be sure to let me know because I might not have gotten emailed about it :) Have a great weekend :)**


	38. A New Room

**Chapter 38 – A New Room**

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell are you doing? It's four in the morning."

The detective gave an annoyed look over the top of his laptop and said. "Researching."

"And it can't wait another two hours?"

"No it can't. In another two hours, we'll be up in that attic, John. Time is of the essence."

John ran a frustrated hand through his hair and said, "What are you talking about?"

"The attic, John! Hamish's room. We must have it cleaned out and ready for his birthday. We have less than a month now."

"Well, what are you… researching?"

"Beds, toy boxes, shelving units, wardrobes, paint colours, curtains, light fittings…"

"Okay, okay. Just… keep it down with your noisy typing and pacing. You woke me up and I really don't want you to wake Hamish up, you know what he's like when he doesn't sleep properly."

* * *

"Daddy, what you are doing?" Hamish had wandered all the way out of his room, up the stairs, past John's room, up some more stairs, and into the attic where Sherlock was sitting on the floor, sifting through boxes.

"I'm cleaning this room out."

"Why?"

"Because when you turn two, this is going to be your bedroom."

"Oh. Daddy too?"

"No. This is just going to be your room. Doesn't that sound wonderful?"

"No."

"Right. Well I'm sure you'll warm to it. Is John up?"

"No. I hungry, Daddy."

"Let's have some breakfast then."

* * *

Hamish lived for Sherlock's meals. The ridiculous detective seemed to have little understanding of what foods were considered 'normal' to eat at certain times of day, so while Hamish was usually stuck with a porridge breakfast from John, a Sherlockian breakfast was far more exciting.

This morning the toddler was presented with a small roasted (and slightly overcooked) potato, a cold sausage left over from last night's dinner, and a cupcake.

"Morning, lads," said John as he sauntered down the stairs. "Hamish what are you… is that a cupcake?"

"Mhmm. Cakey!" he said enthusiastically.

"Sherlock, it's half-six."

He looked up from his 'research' which was currently being conducted on the IKEA website, and said, "Mmm, so it is. Good morning, John."

"Did you dilute that juice you've given him?"

"What? No. Why would I have done that? Diluted with what? Don't be stupid, John."

"Oh, Sherlock… Hame can I have that drink for a minute, little man?"

"It yummy."

"Yeah, I bet it is."

John topped the remainder of the juice up with water and Hamish looked thoroughly unimpressed when it was handed back to him. "You can't just give it to him straight, Sherlock, it's too much sugar."

Sherlock glared at him. "You should appreciate that I made his breakfast without waking you up, John."

"Yucky now, John," he pulled a face and slammed his cup on the table.

* * *

"Are you two planning on getting dressed today?" John asked, standing in the doorway to the attic, watching his flat mates rifle through whatever the hell it was Mrs. Hudson had stashed up there.

Well, Sherlock was sorting through the boxes and would hand Hamish their contents with a shout of, "Throw!" or "Keep!" or "Ask Mrs. Hudson!" and Hamish would place whatever it was in the respective pile.

Mrs. Hudson rushed up the stairs and stood next to John with her hands on her hips. "Sherlock, what are you doing to my attic?"

"Tidying, Mrs. Hudson."

She scoffed and said, "You? Tidying? I shouldn't think so."

"Nan?" said Hamish, Tenth Doctor figure in hand. He pointed to the pile of designated, 'Ask Mrs. Hudson' items and said, "What?"

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock. "What would you like to be done with those?"

"Let me go through it." So she joined them on the floor and John ran off to make tea. Things were added to both the 'Keep' and 'Throw' piles and eventually John returned with three cups of tea and a cut up apple for Hamish.

"Is that a new toy, Hamish love?" Mrs. Hudson pointed to The Doctor and Hamish nodded.

Sherlock frowned and, seeing this, John sighed.

"Bloody Mycroft keeps buying him things. He's a spoiled brat. I've spoken to him but he won't listen to me. This is exactly why he and I are so… John do mind not rolling your eyes at me?"

"Sorry, I've just heard this speech quite a few times lately."

"Well do you want him to end up a pompous arse like my brother?"

"Stop 'ighting now," said Hamish, waving his little hands in the air. "John, I not want apple."

"Fine then, go hungry."

Hamish huffed and Sherlock said, "See? Spoiled."

"Sherlock… That there was the opposite of spoiled. He was being fussy so he doesn't get morning tea. End of story. If he's hungry he'll eat it."

"I have a cakey, John?"

"No, mate. It's the apple or nothing."

"Why?"

"Because that's what I've given you, and that's all you're getting."

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Why?"

"Because you need to eat healthily if you want to be big and strong, Hamish. You can't just eat cake all the time. Cake is a treat."

"Why?"

"Because it isn't healthy."

"Why?"

"Because there's lots of sugar in it."

"Why?"

"Because… Hamish… Because that's just how cake is, okay?"

"Fine. I have ah apple." He sat next to Sherlock and begrudgingly ate his morning tea.

"Did he just… Did he say 'fine' to me?"

* * *

By lunchtime, Sherlock was bored of cleaning, so decided to go furniture shopping instead. They had a quick lunch and bundled up for the weather, ensuring Hamish went to the toilet just before they left.

"Hamish, you can only bring one toy."

"No!"

"Hamish. You may bring one toy or no toys, it is your choice."

"Two, Daddy," he said. "Woody ah Buzz."

"No. Woody _or_ Buzz."

He held them tighter to his chest and frowned. "No!"

"Hamish, I'm going to count to three. If you have not chosen _one_ toy to bring by the time I get to three, they'll both be spending the afternoon at home."

"No!"

"One…"

"No, Daddy! John," he turned to the doctor. "I can have two, John?"

"Hamish, if Daddy says you can only bring one, then that's how many you can bring."

"Two…"

"No!" Giving up on John, Hamish grabbed onto the leg of Sherlock's trousers with one hand and jumped up and down.

The detective ignored him and said, "Hamish, I'm almost at three. If you want to bring any toys at all you need to stop this."

He sat on the floor with a defiant glare and held Woody and Buzz in his lap. "No!"

"Three. That's it. You can't bring anything. Give them to me." He held out a hand which was not filled with the toys as requested.

Hamish drew himself up to his full height, looked his father straight in the eyes and said, "No."

With a nod at John, Sherlock grabbed the toddler around the middle and pinned him back against his chest while John wrestled the toys from his little hands. Hamish kicked and screamed and wriggled so forcefully that Sherlock almost dropped him. "Hamish, stop that right now. You are being very silly. You're going to sit on the step until you've calmed down, alright?"

After a grumpy two minutes on the naughty step, Hamish seemed to have regained control of himself and said, "Sorry, Daddy. I can have Buzz?"

"It's alright, Hamish, but no, you can't bring Buzz."

"Why?"

Sherlock steered him out the door as he answered, "Because when I asked you to choose between the two toys you wouldn't. Because you disobeyed me, Hamish. And that was naughty."

"Sorry, Daddy."

"It's fine, Hamish."

* * *

The sight of Sherlock Holmes on the tube with a toddler on his lap, pointing out the window and laughing with the little boy was perhaps one of the most ridiculous things London had ever seen. But it was John's reality. John's happy little domestic reality. So he smiled.

"Now, Hamish, today we're going to see if we can find some things for your new room," said Sherlock whipping a piece of paper from his pocket and handing it to his son. "This is our list of everything we need. Can you tell me how many things there are?"

"No," said Hamish, not even bothering to look at the list. "You say, Daddy."

"I'll tell you what they are if you count them for me."

Hamish gave in and counted "Ten. Now what it say, Daddy?"

So, Sherlock read it out:

_Bed_

_Mattress_

_Mattress Protector_

_Bed Linen_

_Curtains_

_Rug_

_Wall hooks_

_Lighting_

_Storage_

_Table and Chairs_

* * *

"Daddy?" he said as they walked past the play area. "I can play?"

"I'm sorry, Hamish but you're too young. You have to be three."

"Oh."

John nudged the detective and pointed to the list Sherlock had promptly removed from his little hand when they got off the train. "Here, if you wish to be helpful, you may hold the list for me."

"Sherlock, do you have some sort of plan or are we just going to wander around until one of us murders somebody?"

"Of course I have a plan but…" he lowered his voice to a whisper, "Hamish can't know that I do. He has to think he's chosen everything. There's no way we're getting him out of that cot unless he thinks _he's_ decided to."

"Come, Daddy. We go now."

"Yes, we're going now. Come along, John."

* * *

"What do you think about this bed, Hamish?"

Sherlock had clearly thought more thoroughly about this than John had realised, firstly pointing out a bed that Hamish would most definitely say no to, knowing he'd say no to the first option no matter what it was.

"No, thank you, Daddy."

"What about this one?" Sherlock pointed to a different one, clearly the one he actually wanted to buy.

Hamish cocked his head to one side and said, "Why?" apparently needing to be convinced.

"Well, it's a nice colour…"

"It brown, Daddy."

"Yes, but brown is a very good colour for furniture, Hamish. And it has these excellent barriers on the side so you can't fall out. Isn't that a brilliant idea."

"Mhmm. Okay."

"You like this one?"

"Yes. It ah good."

* * *

The chair section was a minor issue, mostly because Sherlock and his Aspergers did not appreciate changed plans. The problem stemmed from the frankly adorable miniature chairs and John's swooning over them. "What about one of these, Sherlock?"

"Not on the list, John," he spat through his teeth.

"Yes, Daddy, a chair," Hamish said decidedly.

"John… Hamish, you don't need a chair."

"Yes. Daddy a chair, John a chair, me a chair."

"Right, fine. Which one do you want? Quickly now, we don't have all day."

In slightly less than two hours they were finally out of the "bloody hellhole" as John had called it numerous times on their way around, but stopped doing so when Hamish himself gave it the same term.

The next day the van arrived with a bed, mattress, mattress protector, ceiling light (with clouds), bedside lamp (with clouds), wall hooks, bookcase, shelving units, wardrobe, curtains, two sets of bed linen (one with cars, one with bunting), a striped rug, and a miniature table and chairs. These were hidden away in John's room for Hamish's birthday and the attic-clearing continued.

* * *

"Who's this baby, Mrs. Hudson?" John had been on the attic floor, sifting through boxes and boxes of old photographs and held up a small black and white picture of a very young Mrs. Hudson sitting with a baby boy on her lap.

"Oh, John dear. That's my son. Joseph. We lost him not a month after that photograph was taken. Asthma. He was two weeks out from turning two."

"Oh my God. Hamish's…"

"Yes. Hamish's age."

Hamish took interest in the conversation once his name was mentioned and crawled into John's lap to look at the picture. "It a boy."

"Yeah, it is. That's Nan's boy, Hamish," John said, wrapping an arm around his middle, his stomach turning a little at being confronted with the concept of losing him.

The toddler wriggled back against his chest and sighed. "Where he went, Nan?"

Mrs. Hudson didn't look quite ready to speak so John said, "He lives a long way away, Hamish." A lie. A complete and total lie. It was lucky Sherlock was downstairs running the bath. He would have never gotten away with it otherwise.

"Who this is, Nan?" Hamish lifted another photo. One with Mrs. Hudson and a man John knew was her late husband.

"That's my husband, Hamish."

"What a hunsman, Nan?"

"Well, Hame," said John, standing up with Hamish balanced on his hip and walking down to the bathroom. "When two people love each other, they can get married if they want. So when a man gets married, he gets to be his person's husband, and a lady gets to be her person's wife."

"Oh. You are Mary's hunsman?"

"No, matey, we're not married yet."

"You ah be married soon?"

"Maybe."

"When?"

John stood him on the bathroom floor and started stripping him off. "Do you need the toilet?"

"Mhmm. When you be married?"

He put Hamish's seat on the toilet, hoisted him onto it, and said, "I'm not sure, Hame."

"Soon?"

"Maybe."

"How you ah married, John?"

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Um… are you going to the toilet?"

"I trying."

"Just stop talking for a minute and when you've gone we can talk again, yeah? You're getting distracted from your weeing."

Hamish eventually finished and was sat in the bath with his submarine.

"Now, what was your question, mate?"

"How you ah married?"

"Ah, it's big question time again is it?"

He frowned and stared in his lap. "Sorry, John."

"No. Hamish. Hamish look at me. Don't say sorry for asking questions, okay? I love when you ask questions. Now, when two people decide to get married, they have a wedding, which is kind of like a big party, and there's a special person who says that you can be married and then you say some stuff and then you're married. Then there's a big big party afterwards."

"Hurry now, it's nearly bedtime," said Sherlock from the doorway.

"'Lo, Daddy. A story now?"

"Not if you stay in the bath all evening."

* * *

When Sherlock didn't emerge from the bedroom half an hour after he'd been in to put Hamish to bed, John went to investigate.

"Ah."

The detective and his son were fast asleep, curled up around one another, 'Peter Pan' lying open on the bed, Hamish with a fist wrapped tightly around Sherlock's index finger.

* * *

Once everything had been cleared out of the attic (most of it was simply moved downstairs to 221C), the attic room had to be painted. Sherlock turned out to be quite the interior designer and explained to John that, "We should utilize that timber paneling on the walls. We need a blue above the half-paneling and then the timber should be white, do you understand?"

The painting day was… interesting to say the least. It had rained all week so Hamish was outlandishly rowdy and borderline unruly. Sherlock took him to the paint shop and came back fuming. "He threw three tantrums inside the shop, and two on the way home. It's your turn to deal with him, John, or I'll have to hit him." This was absolutely and completely unsuccessful as Hamish had decided to be clingy and wouldn't even let go of Sherlock's hand, let alone allow him out of his sight. "Hamish, please let go of my arm, I have to do some work."

"No, Daddy. I up ah you."

"No, Hamish…"

"Yes. Up now please, Daddy."

"What is the…" he pulled him up and held him against his front so they were facing each other, "matter with you?"

"I stay ah you, Daddy."

"Why? Are you feeling unwell?" He touched a hand to his forehead but found no fever.

"I okay."

Sherlock shifted him onto his hip and said, "Well, we need to start painting now, alright?"

"Okay, I come ah you."

They walked hand-in-hand up the stairs with the tins of paint, and Hamish kept hold of his father's left-hand while he stirred the paint. Just as Sherlock was getting the rollers ready, Hamish gave a little cough which turned into a coughing fit, his little face reddening, a hand grabbing onto Sherlock's arm as he struggled to take a breath.

"Hamish, it's alright, you're alright. Just relax for me."

With some back rubbing and shushing, Hamish settled and took some heaving breaths as the coughing stopped.

"Are you alright now?"

"Okay now, Daddy," he said, clambering into his lap.

Sherlock shifted in irritation and sighed. "Hamish, you can't sit there. I have to paint the wall."

"Want ah sit ah you, Daddy."

"Well, too bad. I have to paint the wall."

"No, Daddy. Need ah sit ah you, Daddy, please."

"No, Hamish. Off you pop, I have to do some painting. Go downstairs and have a cuddle with John if you like, he's on his computer."

"Carry me, Daddy?"

He rolled his eyes and huffed but picked Hamish up and carried him down to the living room. "He's fussy and clingy," he announced. "He wants a cuddle but I'm busy." And with that he plopped him into John's lap, turned on his heel and flounced back up the stairs.

"Well," said John, pulling him back against his chest and pressing a kiss into his hair, "That's just fine. Because I was just thinking about how much I would love a cuddle. Are you feeling okay, Hame?"

"No."

"What's wrong?"

"Don't know."

Sherlock's head suddenly popped back through the door and he said, "Also, he has quite the little cough. Do check that for me, John."

"Daddy ah busy."

"Yeah," John said. "But that's okay. I'm not busy. Daddy's painting your new room."

"I not want new one."

"Oh, come on, Hame. A new room will be great. You can have all of your books and toys up there and you can play up there. And it will be just Hamish's room, yeah?"

"No. Need Daddy."

"Well, if you need Daddy or me we're always going to be just downstairs, okay?"

"Okay." Hamish then sneezed, coughed and frowned, holding a little hand to his head.

"Is your head sore?" John felt his forehead for a fever and also frowned. "You haven't got a temperature. I think it's just a little cold."

"John, when Molly baby ah come?"

"Molly's baby will be here in just a few months, Hame."

"Morrow?"

"No, not tomorrow, bud. I'll tell you when it's close. But we won't know exactly when. Babies are a bit of a surprise."

"Molly tummy big."

John laughed and held him closer. "Yeah, it is getting bigger, isn't it."

"Why?"

"Because the baby's getting bigger and bigger, getting ready to come out."

Hamish fidgeted a little, getting himself more comfortable, before pointing at the computer screen. "What you are doing?"

"I'm just doing some writing. I write stories about me and Daddy's work because people like to hear about how clever your Daddy is."

"Okay."

"Would you like me to put the telly on? It's a bit boring just watching me type."

"It okay."

"You don't want a toy or something to do?"

He sighed, laid his head back and said, "No, ta."

While John wrote up the latest blog, Hamish sat silently on his lap, sucking his thumb and fiddling with the buttons on the doctor's shirt. Just as the post was being uploaded, Hamish sneezed and his nose gave a little explosion all over John's hand and laptop.

"Oh dear," said John.

"Uh-oh. Sorry," said Hamish, who then fell into another coughing fit.

As John was cleaning his hand and Hamish's face, Sherlock staggered into the kitchen, fairly well covered in white paint. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine. Just a little cold, I think."

"I sneeze ah boogies, Daddy."

Sherlock pulled a face. "Ugh, how horrid. I'll be upstairs if you need me, John."

* * *

The detective had flown down the stairs the second he finished painting, scooping a half-asleep Hamish from John's lap and dashing back up the stairs with him.

"What do you think, Hamish?" he said excitedly, prancing around the newly painted room. But Hamish was too busy cuddling himself up to his father to answer. "Hamish."

"Yes, Daddy?"

"Do you like your new room?"

"Mhmm. But Daddy ah stay."

"No, I won't stay up here with you."

"Yes. Daddy ah stay," he murmured, before completely falling asleep on his shoulder.

* * *

Sherlock was rather keen to get rid of the cot, so spent the afternoon trying to construct the flat-packed bed in the middle of the living room.

"Bloody hell!"

"Sherlock, I am_ trying_ to work."

"You are not working, you're writing that stupid blog."

"No 'ighting, please."

"Sorry, Hamish," they said in unison, silently returning to their work.

"Daddy, what you are doing?" He toddled over from his rocket ship to where the pieces of bed were strewn across the floor.

Sherlock threw the Allen key on the floor and said, "Well I'm trying to put together your new bed. But the instructions are wrong."

"Sherlock, they're not wrong. You just can't…"

"There is nothing wrong with my ability to put this idiotic thing together, John. It is broken, or missing pieces or… wrong."

Hamish stood, holding his little hands together and said, "How I can help you, Daddy?"

The instructions were thrust into his hands and Sherlock said, "See if you can decipher these. It starts at this one."

"Okay," he said, and sat down, looking at the pictures. "No, Daddy," he eventually said. "It wrong."

"What's wrong?"

"Wrong way, Daddy." He stood up and pointed at where Sherlock had attached the headboard.

"What?"

"This one. It ah wrong way."

Sherlock frowned and snatched the instructions off him. "Oh. I see."

As the detective began undoing the headboard, John lost interest in his writing and moved to sit on the floor beside Hamish. "How did you know that's how it went, Hame?"

"See?" he pointed at the instructions. "On ah picture."

"What's next, Hamish?" Sherlock had finished reattaching the headboard (the right way around) and looked a little disgruntled that he'd been outsmarted by his one-year-old.

"This one ah there, Daddy."

And so went their afternoon. By the time the bed was finished, they had an audience of three, John, Mrs. Hudson who had brought up some banana bread; and Lestrade, who'd come over for a beer. None of the guests offered to help Sherlock who was gradually becoming more and more petulant and snippy. Whenever a step was completed, Hamish would point out the materials needed for the next one, and gave correct but sometimes rather difficult to understand instructions on exactly how it needed to be attached.

"No, Daddy. Ah big one. Not ah big big one. Just ah big one."

"Wrong way, Daddy."

"Ah up one, Daddy."

"Daddy. You am wrong. It ah this way."

"I need ah toilet."

"No, Daddy. No, no, no, stop. It wrong."

"Daddy, why you did this one? It ah wrong one."

"No. Silly Daddy. It ah wrong way."

"It a bed!" He announced when the mattress was plopped onto the frame.

Sherlock stood up with his hands on his hips and said, "Yes. It's your bed."

"It's a big boy bed," John added.

"I can't believe he just did that," said Lestrade, looking over the cryptic instructions in awe.

John suddenly grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and handed it to Hamish. "What about this, Hame. What do you reckon it means?"

It took Sherlock half a second to realise it was a sheet of codes he'd been trying to decipher for a cold case he'd dug up out of boredom. He snatched it back from his son and glared at John. "Don't you dare. He is _not_ a performing monkey, do you understand me?"

* * *

The cot was removed from the bedroom and replaced by the newly constructed big boy bed. Hamish was not impressed. He'd already pulled the duvet and pillow onto the floor and now stood in his Buzz Lightyear pyjamas, frowning at the bed.

"Hamish, you have to go to bed."

"No, Daddy. Want my little bed." Hamish started crying and kicked his pillow across the room.

"Well too bad. This is your bed now."

"No."

John took over from Sherlock who was about to lose his temper and remade the bed, placing Teddy on the pillow. "Look, Teddy's waiting for you to come to bed."

"No he not."

"Yes, he is. Look. Now hop in and we'll have a story, yeah?"

"No."

"Why don't you just try it out, Hame? Like an experiment."

"Expreriment?"

"Yeah. Test this big boy bed out tonight and see what you think."

Hamish fiddled with the hem of his shirt for a moment and then said, "Okay."

"Great." John scooped him up, pulled back the duvet, and slotted the little boy into bed. "How's that?"

"Mhmm. Okay."

"You like it?"

"Yes," he said, wriggling further under the covers. "It big, John."

"It is big. Now let me tuck you in and we can have your story." John pulled the duvet to sit underneath Hamish's chin and then ran his hands along the boy's sides, tucking the covers in. "There. How's that for you?"

"Good but where woobie is?"

Once he was safely tucked in with woobie, Hamish was read another chapter of 'Peter Pan', but fell asleep before it was finished.

* * *

Contrary to expectations, Hamish only got up once in the night. He slipped out of bed, toddled into the kitchen and said, "Daddy, why you are up?"

"Hello, Hamish." Sherlock closed his laptop and picked the sleepy toddler up. "You should be asleep."

"But why you are up?"

"I'm doing some work, alright?"

"It time ah bed, Daddy," he said as he was placed back in bed.

Sherlock kissed his forehead and said, "I'll be in a little later. Off you go to sleep."

**A/N: Sorry for the delay, guys, I was away and didn't have any internet. Anyways, hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks again for your continued support. Also I figured out that my emails from here were going into my spam so for people having the same problem, check out your spam folder. Have a great rest of the week :)**


	39. A Day With Mary

**Chapter 39 – A Day with Mary**

In late January, Sherlock's phone rang in the middle of breakfast and John instantly knew that it was Lestrade with a good case for them.

"Yes! Thank you, Lestrade. We'll be there in just a moment."

"Just a moment?" said John as he poured more water into Hamish's cup ("Thank you, John"). "I presume it's a crime scene?"

"A glorious one, John," he said, whirling around the flat getting ready to leave.

"Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson's at her sister's. What are we going to leave Hamish here? He can maybe vacuum while we're gone..."

"Oh. Well we could take him…"

"No! That is absolutely not happening. I'll stay here."

"No, please, John. I need you. It'll take _weeks_ on my own. You have to come."

John sat in thought for a moment before picking up his phone. "I'll call Mary. But then we owe her big-time, Sherlock."

Hamish looked up from the piece of toast he was dissecting and said, "Mary coming?"

Since the accident, Mary Morstan had more and more become part of their little family. She was by far the most tolerant of any of John's previous girlfriends, often coming over to keep Sherlock company if John had to take Hamish out because he was about to hit his ridiculous flat mate over the head with a blunt instrument, or watching Hamish while John went out and Sherlock experimented, or taking Hamish out if they both needed a break. Hamish had become, in Sherlock's opinion, worryingly attached to her.

She had a face that radiated light and love, an affinity with jumpers and cardigans which rivaled John's, and was outstandingly talented in the area of finding craft for Hamish to do which was intellectually stimulating but easy enough for his limited fine motor skills. Hamish had turned out to be quite the little artist and it was lucky he had Mary around because John could barely draw a straight line and Sherlock wouldn't lower himself to do something so flippant, not even for Hamish. Once over breakfast, they were talking about what they liked most about Mary, and Hamish said that she was like a, "Happy new flower," which John rather agreed with.

"Yeah, me and Daddy have to go to work, so you can have a day with Mary, how does that sound?"

He frowned and shook his head. "No. Not day ah Mary. Want day ah Daddy."

Sherlock gave him an irritated wave and said, "Hamish, don't be silly. It's just for today, alright? Now quickly finish your breakfast."

* * *

"Now, Hamish you must be very good for Mary, alright? She knows about your chart. So if you do the wrong thing, you'll get a spot, do you understand?" said Sherlock, kneeling on the floor in front of his son.

The sticker chart had worked wonders, with a star for good behaviour and a grey dot for bad behaviour, Hamish's temper tantrums had just about halved in number.

"Not want you ah go, Daddy. You can stay." He folded his arms and pouted.

"No, Hamish, I gave to go to work."

"No!"

"Hamish, settle down, please."

"No, Daddy. Want you ah stay, please, Daddy?" He started crying and grabbed onto Sherlock's sleeve.

"Hamish, you don't need to cry. It's alright."

Mary's call of, "Morning, boys!" from the bottom of the stairs only made him cry harder and cling tighter to his father. "Oh dear, what's the matter, Hamish love?"

"No! Daddy stay!" He suddenly and completely lost control of himself and lay on the ground, hitting his poor little head on the floorboards over and over again.

"Hamish! Hamish, stop that, you'll hurt yourself." Sherlock grabbed him under the arms and picked him up, only to be punched in the face and kicked in the stomach by the hysterical toddler. "Hamish, this is your warning. You need to settle down right now, do you understand?"

"No, Daddy! No!"

"Hamish. One… two… three. Fine, time for the naughty step."

"No! No no no! Daddy stop! Not ah step! No!"

"Hamish, you are being very silly," said Sherlock as he held the little boy on the step. "You need to sit here for… Hamish, do not hit me. You will sit here because you need to calm down and because you hit and kicked me and we do not hit or kick in this house, Hamish."

He sat sobbing quietly to himself for his two minutes. "Daddy, mine head hurt," he said miserably when Sherlock told him his time was up.

"Well that's because you were being silly, Hamish. Would you like some ice on it?"

"No. Just cuddle."

"Oh, Hamish. It's alright, you just need to settle down. Everything's okay. You love it when Mary comes over." He picked him up and rubbed his back as they returned to the living room.

"Sherlock, I don't think we should…"

"John, it's fine," said Mary with an affectionate eye roll. "Hamish?"

"Mhmm?" He was sucking his thumb and resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I brought some special things for us to do today while Daddy and John are at work. Would you like to see them?"

"What things?" He looked suspicious and held tighter onto Sherlock.

She smiled and looked in the large duffel bag she'd brought. "Well, I've got some craft for us to do, an experiment we could try out, a movie we could watch, some cooking we could do, and I was thinking we might be able to go to the park after your sleep."

Hamish lightened slightly at this and looked at least mildly interested. "But Daddy can stay?"

"Hamish, I have to go to work, alright? Now why don't you show Mary your rocket ship from Mycroft?" Sherlock gave him a kiss on the forehead and placed him on the ground.

"No, Daddy! No!"

"Hamish, it's alright, everything's okay. We'll be back this afternoon."

"No, Daddy, want you ah stay." He started crying again and Sherlock almost caved.

"Perhaps we should..."

"No, Sherlock. You have to go to work, it's okay. I'm guessing he's been like this since the accident?" A nod from the detective and Mary continued. "Hamish, why don't you have a bath and you can show me the bubbles, how does that sound? Because Daddy has to go to work. But it's going to be okay. I'll be here all day, and he'll be home later."

"Okay, a bath. But Daddy will stay."

"Darling, Daddy has to go to work. Come on, love, let's get the bath going, and Daddy and John can finish getting ready." She picked him up, smiled at his flat mates, and carried him to the bathroom.

He was sitting in the bath, still crying little, when they poked their heads in to say goodbye.

"You go now, Daddy?"

"Yes, we're going now. We'll be home later, alright?"

"Okay," he said with a sniffle.

"Good boy. Be good for Mary. I love you, Hamish."

"Love you, Daddy. You be back soon," he ordered him.

"Yes, I'll be back soon."

"Bye-bye Daddy ah John," he said miserably, staring at his submarine as they left. "They gone now," he said as they heard the front door close.

"Yeah, but we're going to have lots of fun today, okay, Hame?"

He looked unconvinced but said, "Okay."

The bath completely calmed him down, and he had fully recovered by the time Mary pulled him out and rubbed him dry.

"Now, what would you like to wear today, love?"

He ran to the bedroom and returned a little while later with a hodgepodge of clothing which included a foam sword and a raincoat, and Mary somehow managed to assemble it into an outfit for him. He ended up in a stripy long-sleeved t-shirt which he apparently wanted to wear because it was, "Like John," some odd socks, and his overalls from Mycroft which didn't look particularly clean.

"Hamish, did you get these from the drawer?"

"No, on ah floor," he said cheerily as she pulled them on.

"Did you eat breakfast already?"

"Mhmm."

"Okay, excellent. What would you like to do then, craft or cooking?"

* * *

As soon as they walked back into the living room, he seemed to remember that his father wasn't home and started crying again.

Mary put the television on, gave him woobie, tried to distract him with the train set, offered to change his clothes, tried to bribe him with a star, gave him a cupcake John would have never allowed so soon after breakfast, found him Teddy, and put Toy Story on, but he wouldn't be calmed. He didn't like the show that was on television, threw woobie on the floor, didn't want to play with his trains because they were "Too blue", refused the change of clothes, didn't want a star, pushed the cupcake away in a huff, held onto Teddy but pretended he didn't want him, and apparently Toy Story was, "Silly ah dull."

Mary ended up pacing around the living room, rocking him slowly in her arms and singing nursery rhymes, occasionally pointing at things out the window (most of which he wouldn't look at), walked up and down the stairs a few times for variation, and tried to ignore his little sobs of "Want Daddy," although they were a little heartbreaking.

He was eventually calm again, no longer resisting her cuddle, and singing along with her. Mary didn't dare ask him if he was alright in case he was once again reminded of exactly why he was not alright. Instead, she carried him into the kitchen and sat him on the bench, rifling through the cupboards and passing him ingredients before placing a pot on the stove.

"We are going to make some play-dough. Now you sit just there and you can help me, okay? But when I put the stove on, don't touch it."

He nodded enthusiastically and said, "It hot."

"That's right, it's hot."

"How it make play-dough, Mary?" he said, frowning at the ingredients she'd set out.

She smiled and handed him the flour. "You'll just have to wait and see."

Hamish looked rather dubious but tipped the flour in nonetheless. As they went through the recipe, Hamish helpfully informed Mary numerous times that the mixture did not yet look like play-dough. It wasn't until she removed the almost-finished dough from the saucepan and sat it on the bench that Hamish said, "Oh. It play-dough now."

"Yes it is. What colour would you like it to be, love?"

This was apparently an extremely important decision as Hamish sat for quite some time while Mary kneaded the dough. "Blue?" he finally said.

"Blue sounds lovely."

She added the food colouring and asked Hamish to knead it in. He poked at it once and then declared that it was, "Dull," and ran off to play with his trains.

"Hamish, love, it's finished. Would you like to play with it?"

"Oh!" He jumped up and ran back into the kitchen. "I see it?"

Mary pulled him onto his seat at the table and plopped the play-dough in front of him. "What do you think?"

"Good," he decided. "Thank you, Mary."

"You're perfectly welcome, sweetheart."

* * *

"Hello?"

"Ah, Mary. I'm just calling to see how Hamish is."

"He's fine, Sherlock, I promise."

"Has he settled down?"

"Yes."

"Is he behaving?"

"Like an angel."

"Has he had…"

"Would you like to talk to him?"

"Ah… Yes, that would… Yes. Thank you."

"Hamish, love!" she called out, hoping it wouldn't be a drama that she was interrupting Postman Pat. He looked up at her with a grin and she said, "Daddy's on the phone. He'd like to talk to you. Why don't you tell him what we did this morning?"

The phone was passed over and Hamish shouted, "'Lo, Daddy!" into it.

"Hello, Hamish. How are you?"

"I sad you am gone ah work, Daddy."

"Don't worry, I'll be home later on. What have you been doing today?"

"Make ah play-dough, Daddy!"

"You made play-dough?"

"Mhmm. It ah blue."

Hamish babbled on for another few minutes before he got bored and handed the phone back to Mary.

"I'll call later, Mary… Just to… check in."

"Alright, Sherlock. Talk to you later, love."

* * *

Finger-painting was next on the agenda which got Hamish so excited that he wet his pants.

"Oh no!" he said, sitting down and starting to cry. "A wee."

"Oh, darling, it's alright. Let's get your pants changed, yeah?"

"Want ah painting."

"Yes, sweetheart, we'll do the painting after we've changed you, okay?"

* * *

"What are you painting, darling?"

"Daddy," he said proudly.

"Oh, right." Mary nodded and looked at the blue and green splodges on the paper with a smile.

"Why you not painting, Mary?" He looked very concerned that she had been left out of the proceedings, and started getting her a piece of paper to use.

"Thank you, love, that's very kind."

"I sharing," he informed her.

"You're an excellent sharer, Hamish."

He slapped a bright yellow handprint on the middle of his page and said, "John say ah share."

"John says to share?"

"Mhmm. Daddy not ah share. He bad."

Mary laughed and brushed back the little curls that had fallen over his eyes. "You need a haircut, love."

"What?"

"A haircut. You need someone to cut your hair for you."

He looked very alarmed and said. "No. It ah hurt?"

"No, sweetheart, it won't hurt you. You won't even feel it, I promise. They'll just cut it so it's not in your eyes any more, okay?"

"Who?"

"Well, you're full of questions aren't you. I'm not sure who. You'll have to ask your Daddy."

"Daddy know lot ah things."

"Yes, your Daddy's very clever."

"John know lot ah things too," he quickly added.

"Who do you think knows more things, John or Daddy?"

Hamish stopped painting and thought for a moment before saying, "John," and then, "What you painting?"

"It's the sun here, and a flower."

"Nice flower. You do one ah mine?"

* * *

"Are you ready for the park, love?"

He rubbed his eyes as he wandered from the bedroom after his nap and said, "Mhmm. Okay. Need ah toilet."

After a quick toilet stop, Hamish was bundled in a jumper, coat, and beanie, and they set off. Mary was splashed countless times on the way as Hamish jumped in all of the puddles left over from the previous day's thunderstorm.

He decided to go on the swing first but declared it, "Dull," after not very long. The climbing frame was a much bigger hit.

They sat beneath a tree for afternoon tea and as he was being passed his biscuit Hamish said, "Mary?"

"Yes, love?"

"Molly has baby."

"Yes, she does. In her tummy, isn't it."

"Mhmm. You has a baby in you's tummy?"

She laughed and pulled him to sit on her lap. "No, darling. I don't have a baby in my tummy."

"Why?"

"Well, I just haven't decided to have one yet."

"Why?"

"I'm not really ready to be a Mummy yet."

"Oh. But soon you has a baby," he informed her.

"Maybe."

"John put baby in you."

"Will he now?"

"Yep. How he put baby in?"

"Have John and Daddy talked to you about babies?"

"Mhmm. John."

"What did John tell you about babies, can you remember?"

"You ah make baby. How you make baby? Play-dough?" he suggested.

To suppress her laughter, Mary pressed a kiss into his hair. "No, darling. We get a bit of Daddy and a bit of Mummy and mix them together to make the baby."

"Like a cakey!"

"Sort of like a cakey, yes."

"Okay," he said. "Soon John ah put baby in you's tummy, okay?"

"Okay, love."

* * *

"Oh isn't he sweet," said an old woman as they made their way out of the park. "Are you out at the park with your Mummy, sweetheart?"

"No," he said. "Not mine Mummy. Him ah mine Mary."

"Oh, this is your Mary, is it?"

"Mhmm."

Mary stepped in. "I'm his Dad's friend. I'm just minding him today."

"Where's Daddy, dear?"

"Daddy ah work," he said mournfully. "He ah back soon."

* * *

"Mary, when Daddy ah home?" he said, looking up from the picture of Peppa Pig he was scribbling on.

"He shouldn't be too much longer, love."

Less than a minute later, the front door swung open and, hearing the noise, Hamish fell off of the sofa in excitement ("Oof. Oopsie"). "It ah Daddy?" he asked.

"Why don't you go and see?"

He bounded down the stairs (slipped twice) and shouted, "Daddy!" when he reached the bottom.

Sherlock swung him up to sit on his hip and said, "Hello, Hamish."

"You am inished?"

"Not quite. I'll need to do some work tomorrow. But it'll be at the labs so you can come with me if you like."

As they got to the top of the stairs, Hamish wriggled until he was put down and said, "I painted you, Daddy."

"Did you? That was excellent talking, Hamish."

John eventually managed to reach the living room, his arms overflowing with files and God knew what else. "Hey, Mary. Was he alright?"

"He was fine, John. I don't know why you two were so worried."

"Sherlock was a train wreck. I had to stop him from calling you seven times."

The detective reemerged from the kitchen where he'd been being shown Hamish's painting, and sat at the desk with John's laptop. Hamish sat at his train set and started rebuilding the track.

"Ah!" He shouted suddenly. "English Yew. How did they not pick that up?"

"What are you talking about, Sherlock?" John wandered into the kitchen and left poor Mary to hear about English Yew.

"The poison, John! Of course. Victims are killed so quickly, additional symptoms are usually missed."

John returned from the kitchen where he'd been making tea to say, "Where did Hamish go? He's being suspiciously quiet."

"He was just… Hamish!" Sherlock stood and panicked a little when his son didn't answer. "Hamish!" He rushed into the kitchen and shouted, "Hamish! What do you think you are doing?!"

There was some shuffling, banging and a resounding crash before Hamish said. "Ow, Daddy!" and started crying.

Jumping to conclusions he would later regret, John flew out of his seat and hurtled into the kitchen. "What the hell is going on in here?!"

Sherlock was standing by the sink with the water running, and Hamish was sitting on the edge of the bench, his father gently holding one little hand beneath the water, and rubbing his back while he cried. The pair looked up in surprise and John relaxed, his face falling when he saw Hamish's free hand holding Sherlock's arm. Apparently he was wrong.

"What happened?"

"He had turned the stove on, so I was lifting him from the bench and I tripped on some bloody pot he put on the floor. I almost dropped him and in the scuffle he knocked over this cup of tea you stupidly left here and spilt it on himself. It's the back of his left hand. You thought I hit him."

A sigh. "Sherlock, I… Sorry. It just sounded like… It was what he said… I know you'd never do it, I don't even know why I thought it."

"Never mind that now. This has blistered up awfully, will you look at it?"

"Hurting, Daddy," Hamish said between sobs

"I know, son. It's alright. John's going to look at you. I'm so sorry that happened to you, Hamish." He turned the tap off and picked him up, sitting on a dining chair with his son on his lap.

John thanked the heavens for Sherlock being so haphazard with acid that they had an almost ridiculously well-stocked burns treatment kit.

"Sherlock, I'll do what I can but we should probably take him to the A&E."

Sherlock snorted. "What could they possibly do that you can't?"

"Hamish just sit very still for me. I'm not going to touch it. I'm just going to look, okay?" He carefully took the toddler's hand in his own, and examined the burn. "It's only minor, but it is blistering pretty badly. Can you put it back under the water? We need it under there for at least ten minutes. He's really lucky it only got his hand. I see so many little kids with it on their faces, arms, chests…"

"Yes, John, but that does not undermine the validity of his injury!" Sherlock always took Hamish's injuries very seriously and the doctor was given a pointed frown as his flat mate returned to holding the small hand under the cold water.

"Daddy, no. Not more, Daddy. Hurting, Daddy."

"I know it's hurting, Hamish, but you have to keep it under the water."

"Can I do anything, boys?"

Sherlock surprised everyone in the room by speaking up. "Could you please rub his back and say those… motherly things."

Mary tried her very best not to laugh at him and went to Hamish, rubbing his back still shaking with sobs, and saying things like, "It's alright, darling, John's going to fix you up," and "You're such a brave boy, Hamish. You're being so good, sweetheart."

Once the injured hand had been under cold running water for fifteen minutes, John tried to apply some soothing cream to it but Hamish wasn't having it. So they sat him in front of the television with an ice lolly and Teddy while John tried to come up with some sort of first-aid solution Hamish would find acceptable.

Less than a minute passed before Hamish was back in the doorway to the kitchen, Teddy in hand, saying. "Mine hand hurting, Daddy."

Sherlock hoisted him into his arms and looked expectantly at John.

"Well, Hamish, if you'll let me put this cream on it'll stop hurting."

"But cream ah hurt."

"It will hurt for a minute while I put it on but I promise it will make your hand feel better."

"Not want it."

"What if Daddy does it?"

"No. I not want it."

"Come on, Hamish," said Sherlock as he waltzed back to the living room and sat on the sofa with Hamish on his lap. "It will be alright. I'm right here. And John's going to be very careful. You just watch your show. It will be over before you know it." He gave John a nod and continued talking. "What are you watching, Hamish? I don't think I've seen this show before."

"It Pat. You silly, Da- Ow! No, no, no. Stop now!" he started crying and Sherlock held him tighter as John pulled his hands away and sat back on his heels.

"I'm really sorry, Hame, but I have to put this on you. It's going to stop your hand from hurting."

"It's alright, Hamish. It's very quick. You just sit and watch Pat for a little minute and then John will be finished."

Rather than turning his attention back to the television, Hamish held tightly onto Teddy, and buried his face in Sherlock's chest.

"Good boy," said John as he was finally able to rub the cream onto the little hand.

Hamish cried quietly into Sherlock's shirt and the detective held him tightly, talking to him the entire time. "You're alright, Hamish. It's all okay. It's nearly over. John's just fixing you up. Did you have a fun day today? I bet you did. Did you help Mary make the play dough? You're a very good helper. It's almost finished now, love. I'm so sorry you hurt yourself. Did you go to the park earlier? It's a lovely day outside. There you go, it's all finished."

"All done," said John. "Good boy, Hamish. You were so brave. Now I just need to…"

"No! No more."

John kissed his forehead and said, "Alright, little man. You just watch your show with Daddy, yeah?"

"Mhmm."

* * *

The burn was covered with a small piece of gauze before he went to bed early as he was completely tragic.

"No, Daddy. Not mine bed."

A short look was exchanged between John and Sherlock, and the detective decided to hold the little boy until he was asleep. He was, after all, still in a lot of pain.

So, Hamish was gently rocked to sleep and finally very carefully placed in his bed and tucked in with Teddy and woobie.

* * *

"You should do it soon, John," Sherlock said, three seconds after they'd seen Mary into a cab.

"Do what?"

"Propose to her."

"What? Sherlock, how could you possibly know about that?"

He sighed and leaned forward in his armchair. "I don't understand why you insist on asking me that, John. You went to Oxford Street last week, came back with a small box in your pocket, and still haven't paid your half of this month's rent because you spent almost all of your savings on a ring from Tiffany's. Anyway, you should ask her before she realises how annoying I am."

"How annoying you are? Sherlock, this might come as a surprise to you but people don't base their decision to marry someone on that person's flat mate."

"Daddy?" Hamish had done his lovely little trick again where he suddenly appears next to Sherlock's armchair at all hours of the evening.

"Hamish, why are you up?"

"Sore hand, Daddy."

"I know your hand is sore, Hamish, but you need to go to sleep. John, this discussion is not over."

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, kids, I've had a heap of Uni work. In case you haven't realised, Hamish's birthday is coming up and since the next chapter will be a nice even number, it's going to be our second birthday chapter! Once again, if anyone has any ideas, prompts, or suggestions, even if it's something like, 'I reckon Hamish should get a ... for his birthday,' they are super helpful. Don't hesitate to leave them in a comment or send it to me on tumblr (jayofthebarricade dot tumblr dot com). Don't forget to review. Chapter 40 will be up sometime soon hopefully. If anything, it will be up before Season 3.**


End file.
